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EFFIE MAXWELL. 



VOL I. 



/ 



I 



s 



f 



' OU 



J 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 



BY 



AGNES SMITH, 

AUTHOR OP 

"EASTERN PILGRIMS," 

&c. &c. 



IN THREE VOLUMES. ^ 
VOL. L 







LONDON: 

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET, 

1876- 

A U rights reserved 



25) . J. 



•v 



LONDON: 
PRINTS) BY MAQDOIIALD AMD TUQWBLL, BUBfHKOI HOU8R, 
BLKNHBTM STBJEBT, OXFORD ITBKBT 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 



CHAPTER I. 

" T OOK, Alan, what a pretty child !" 

-" I was startled from my reverie. I 
had been gazing at a lady who was seated 
in Mr. Russell's shop, her daintily gloved 
hands busy amongst a heap of bright- 
tinted wools, whilst a wonderful owl, 
worked in beads, lay extended before her on 
the counter. But it was not the rich 
colours of the wools, nor the soft luxuri- 
ance of her furs, nor the elegance of the 
white lace that confined her delicate throat 
— no ! none of these things attracted my 

VOL. I. B 



2 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

-childish enthusiasm. It was the sweetness 
of the smile that played round her dimpled 
mouth as she said, 

"I think these shades are a charming 
match, Mr. Russell; just give me the 
quantity you think I shall require, 
and have them sent to the Priory this 
evening." 

This lady. Was she a princess, such as 
I had read of in my fairy tales ? Did she 
drink out of a golden goblet, and would 
she have felt the pressure of a pea beneath 
the silken cushions of her couch ? Would 
Mr. Russell ever notice me, a poor little 
girl who had come in only for the few 
yards of purple braid her mother wanted 
to finish a dress, and who knew she would 
be scolded for staying on her errands? He 
had a very great lady to serve, and so no 
wonder he forgot that the little girl in the 
brown stuff dress and shepherd's plaid 
fihawl had stood waiting for nearly an 
hour. 



BPPIB MAXWELL. 

\*9 



u Look, Alan, what a pretty child ! 

I was startled, and I looked to see who 
had spoken. In the doorway stood a 
young lady in a short black dress and 
sealskin cape. She had put her hand on 
the shoulder of a handsome boy, evidently 
her brother. He turned quickly from his 
examination of a cricketing suit in the 
window and answered, 

"Well, nothing remarkable. Are you 
ready now, mamma ?" 

The beautiful lady rose, bowed to Mr. 
and Miss Eussell, and leaving the shop 
with her youthful companions, stepped 
into the neatest of pony-carriages, and was 
soon whirled out of my sight. I had 
shrunk into a corner on being thus unex- 
pectedly noticed. Miss Russell bent over 
the counter, and said in a kind tone, 

" Well, Effie dear, what do you want to- 
day r 

I delivered my message, saw my mother's 

braid and sewing silk rolled into a neat 

b2 



4 EFPIB MAXWELL, 

little packet, received a few pence of 
change, and hurried home to account for 
my long absence. 

Having satisfied my mother, who safe 
stitching in our little parlour, at whose 
window some sprigs of honeysuckle hung 
lovingly over a box of mignonette, I ran 
upstairs and found Bridget repairing a hole 
in the dimity curtain of my bed. I went 
straight to the looking-glass. 

" Bridget, do you think I am pretty ?" 

" Pretty, lass ! an' ye Ye settin' yersel' up 
for conceit ! No, ye're no' pretty, I'm 
thinkin', an' ye suld think shame o' yersel' 
for staring in at the glass. If I were to 
tell missis, she'd send ye supperless to bed, 
an serve ye richt !" 

Bridget was in a bad temper. I buried 
my face in my hands, and gave way to my 
own reflections. "Why was I not more like 
other children ? A little boy and girl had 
just passed our cottage trundling their 
hoops. Why had I never anything to play 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 5 

with, not even the skipping-rope Uncle Ro- 
bert bought me last April ? The chemist's 
daughter had got that skipping-rope as a 
present from my mother, as she had also 
the great curly-headed doll they said came 
from Aunt Helen many years ago. I was 
now too old to care for dolls, but if the 
skipping-rope was too good for me, why 
was it not too good for Annie Dick ? I 
wondered if Annie never made mistakes 
in her Latin verbs, and if she could sew 
the hem of a pocket-handkerchief quite 
straight, which I never could. My medi- 
tation was interrupted by my mother 
entering the room. 

" Effie, you naughty child, what are you 
doing? Papa's not to be home to-night, 
so he can't hear you your Latin. But 
mind, you'll revise these five chapters of 
Job that you've been learning, and you'll 
not get to bed till you can say them withj 
out a mistake. Remember when I say a 
thing I mean it. Now go, and be quick 



6 BFFIB MAXWELL. 

about it. I'll hear you say them after 
tea." 

I got down my Bible and began revising 
the chapters I had learnt during the last 
ten Sundays. Some parts of them fasci- 
nated me extremely, but in others it 
seemed as if the verses would never keep 
in their right places. After having de- 
molished my milk and bread and butter, 
my mother said : 

" Now, Effie, are you ready ? w 

I brought the Bible, stood with folded 
hands, and repeated the first chapter quite 
correctly until I came to the nineteenth 
verse : — 

" And behold, there came a great wind 
from the wilderness and fell upon the four 
corners of the house, and it smote the 
young men that they are dead." 

My mother shut the book, and handed 
it to me. 

"You don't know it at all," she said. 
" I'm going to Mr. WardlaVs lecture, and 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 7 

won't be back till ten o'clock. I hope 
you'll know it then." 

She left the room. Half an hour after 
Bridget appeared. 

"Oh, Bffie, are you there ?" Bridget 
dropped the "Miss" when we were alone. 
" You've got these nasty verses to learn, 
have you? I declare 'tis a shame of 
missis !" 

" Hush, Bridget, you must not speak in 
that way of the Bible. But I know them 
already. All the learning I can give them 
won't make me say them any better unless 
some one hears me them first." 

" Well, Bffie, but you know Mr. Ward- 
law's Christina is coming to see us to- 
night, and a cousin of Mary's with her. 
'Tis Mary's birthday, and we're going to 
divide a cake. We'd like if you'd come 
and join us. They'll be away before 
missis comes home." 

" Oh, but, Bridget, if I don't know this 
mother says I'm not to go to bed." 



8 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

" Well, Fll hear you, and if you can say 
it to me, you surely can to her." 

" Thank you, Bridget. But yod'll be 
very particular, and not let me slip a word." 
Bridget heard me repeat the five 
chapters with great patience, holding the 
book close to her eyes with her rough 
fingers. The few verses at which I 
stumbled, and the few words I misplaced, 
she made me repeat three times over after 
I had finished. 

I then accompanied her to the kitchen, 
where Christina and a blacksmith named 
John Thomson were seated at a table 
before the blazing fire, while Mary, the 
cook, cut into five pieces a large circular 
cake of shortbread. 

" She has put a ring and a thimble into 
it," said Bridget. "We'll see who gets 
them." 

" Ay, 'twill be yoursel'," said Christina. 
"No hope for us, Mary, we brown our 
faces too much at the fire." 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 9 

Mary now supplied everyone with a 
portion. The first breakage of mine dis- 
closed a crooked sixpence. 

"Oh, Miss Effie, you'll be rich some 
day," cried Christina, laughing. 

Bridget became the happy possessor of 
the ring, and John Thomson won the 
thimble. He offered to change with her ; 
and the fun was growing fast and furious 
when the front-door bell rang. 

It was half-past nine by the kitchen 
clock. Christina looked about for her 
bonnet, and I ran back to the parlour to 
make a similar search for my Bible. Bridget 
was rather slow in opening the door, so 
the bell rang again. She went in fear and 
trembling. It was only a parcel from the 
bootmaker s, however. She returned to 
the kitchen quite out of breath. 

" Well, they're off, but we were nearly 
caught. Perhaps it's just as well though, 
for cook might not have time to wash up 
the dirty foot-marks, and we might have 



10 BPPIK MAXWELL. 

forgotten the parlour fire. It's most out. 
An* ye'll be none the worse o' havin' some 
time to learn yer lesson." 

I sat on the sofa, and pored diligently 
over my book, till my mother came in. She 
took off her bonnet, laid it on the table, 
and said : 

" Now be quick, Effie, if you want to go 
to bed." 

Confident in my own powers, I repeated 
correctly until I came to the twenty-second 
verse of the third chapter, which verse I 
unfortunately omitted. My mother rose 
and said : 

u Now, Effie, that is very wrong, after 
the time I've given you. But you'll say 
those chapters correctly, or not a wink of 
sleep will you get. I'm going to bed, and 
if you know them at twelve o'clock, you can 
come and put up the gas in my room, and - 
I'll hear them. Mind you don't waste your 
time." 

My mother went away, leaving open the 



EFFIE MAXWELL. II 

door which communicated between the^ 
parlour and her bedroom. I heard her 
moving about, but at last all was still, and 
only an occasional clearance of her throat 
showed me that she was still awake. I 
dared not move, but sat with the book 
before me. Softly turning back the leaves,, 
I revelled in my beloved story of Esther. 
The time did not seem long till the- 
timepiece marked the noon of night. I 
went to my mother's room. She slept very 
lightly, and my putting up the gas at once 
aroused her. 

" Now, Bffie, give me over that shawl,, 
and be quick." 

I handed her a grey knitted scarf. She 
adjusted it over her head and shoulders,, 
tucked the blue quilted counterpane firmly 
round her waist, and sat prepared to listen. 
I repeated from the beginning of the third 
chapter. But in the sixth verse of the- 
following one I omitted a word. 



12 EPFIE MAXWELL. 

" Go away and learn it. Come again at 
three." 

I returned to the parlour, feeling very- 
miserable. I had now a headache, and 
as I sat with the book before me, and no 
sound falling on my ear save the moaning of 
the wind, I almost felt as if the hair of my 
head stood up, and as if a spirit were going 
to pass before my eyes. I settled into a cor- 
ner of the sofa, opened a large old-fashion- 
ed book of biblical prints that stood 
near, and feasted both eyes and imagina- 
tion on a picture of Esther and Ahasuerus. 
But the time seemed wofully long. In 
other days my kind friend Bridget had 
supplied me with such surreptitious reading 
as " Puss in Boots" and " Cinderella." This 
had awakened in me a taste for the romantic 
which such childish reading had failed to 
satisfy. I had often smuggled one of Scott's 
novels into bed, and read it not only in the 
early morning, but at such odd hours as I 
liad when my tasks were finished and my 



EFFIB MAXWELL 13*- 

mother was out gossiping with some of her 
numerous female friends. As six months** 
imprisonment sometimes means nourishing 
food and a comfortable bed to a thief, so a 
disgraceful banishment often only meant 
for me sweet converse with Prank Osbaldis- 
tone and Helen Macgregor. 

At length I summoned up courage, and 
standing on tip-toe, opened the glass book- 
case and took out " Old Mortality." Bead- 
ing that inimitable story for the twentieth 
time, I soon forgot all about the man of : 
Uz and his eloquent friends. 

At three o'clock I failed for the fourth 
time. The parlour felt cold, for the fire- 
had gone out. But I sat and laughed 
secretly at Cuddie Headrigg until five,, 
when I made a fifth vain attempt at correct- 
ness by substituting the word famine for 
the word destruction in the twenty-first 
verse of the fifth chapter. I was again 
despatched to my hopeless task, and felt 
almost overcome with sleep ; but whether 



14 BPPIB MAXWELL. 

I yielded or not to its influence, I know 
not. At seven my mother looked in and 
said : 

" Go and dress yourself, Effie, and I'll 
hear you in the afternoon." 

I went to my room. How refreshing 
'was cold water to my aching eyes! A 
great sense of weariness came over me, and 
after breakfast I walked with lingering step 
by my mother's side to the church, which 
was about three quarters of a mile distant 
from our house. During Mr. Wardlaw's 
sermon and prayers I had great difficulty 
in keeping awake. We returned home, 
and had luncheon between the two services, 
which in Scotland follow close on each 
other. Then we returned to church, where 
several times I should have fallen into the 
arms of Morpheus, had not a severe pinch 
from my mother restored me each time to 
a state of consciousness. I dreaded that 
the coming night would be spent in much 
the same manner, and this dread was not 



EFFIE MAXWELL. L6 

lessened when the minister announced 
that the Bey. Mr. G., an escaped slave, 
would deliver a sermon in the Free Church 
that evening. 

On the way home my mother fell in with 
Miss White, the eldest of three sisters who 
had once seen better days, and now sup- 
ported themselves by millinery. After 
discussing the sermon and the choir, Miss 
White said, 

" I hope Effie is a very jgood girl, and 
getting on well with her lessons." 

"Good!" said my mother, "you don't 
know Effie. No, indeed, she is a very 
naughty girl I and what is worse, Miss 
White, though you will scarcely believe it, 
she never shows any love for her father 
nor for me. She has not a particle of 
affection in her heart. Indeed, she does 
not seem capable of loving anyone. I 
wonder whom she can expect to care for 
her, the cold-hearted girl ! I should like 
to guess what she will be when she grows 



16 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

up, and has not me to look after her. 
She'll be running about with holes in her 
stockings the size of potatoes, and her hair 
a perfect sight ! I should just like to have 
a peep at her then." 

" Oh, indeed !" said Miss White. " Dear 
me, how very sad ! Effie, you must try 
to do better. Just think of what Mr. 
Wardlaw said to-day about the angels. 
Oh ! Mrs. Maxwell, how thankful we should 
be for such preaching I" 

" Yes, indeed !" said my mother. " The 
more shame to us when we don't come up 
to our privileges. Good-bye, Miss White, 
remember me to your sisters." 

We walked on, I felt ready to cry. My 
mother had told me often enough how 
naughty I was, but it seemed very hard to 
accustom myself to the thought that Miss 
White knew it too. Oh, what could I do 
to be good ? I was sure I loved my father. 
And I loved my mother too, if she would 
only let me tell her so. If she would only 



: 9JBVHmBBi^P«Vil^V a «H0aW~'«Kt«IVWVGW^H*^Ni i" ' ■!■ 



/J 



EFITE MAXWELL. 17 

« 

smile as kindly as the lady in the shop did, 
I would creep up to her and promise to be 
more diligent. On reaching home, I went 
to my room and sobbed bitterly. There 
I was found by Bridget. 

a Oh ! Effie, what is wrong with you ?" 

" Bridget, is it true that nobody can love 
me?" 

" Oh, Effie, / love ye !" said the simple 
Highland girl. " "What gars ye ask such 
a daft question ?" 

" Mother said so to Miss White as we 
were coming from church." 

" Oh ! she was only joking. She is 
hard enough sometimes though, but 'tis 
because ye are not always as good as she 
wants ye to be. An' ye that made yer ain 
bed this mornin' to save me the trouble !" 

11 No, Bridget, I never was in bed at all. 
I never said my chapters quite right, 
and I had to sit up all night to learn 
them." 

" Eh, lass, ye don't mean to say so, my 

vol. i. c 



V 



18 BPFIB MAXWELL. 

•certy ! Well, that's a shame ! But it won't 
happen again, or my name's not Bridget ! 
If I was to tell master ! I'll try something 
else ere I'll do that, though. Now dry 
your eyes, and go down to dinner." 

As the cloth was being removed my 
mother said, 

" Bffie, do you know these chapters yet ?" 

I went upstairs and fetched my Bible. 
As I was coming down I overheard Bridget 
say to my mother : 

" I'm thinkin' there's something wrong 
wri' Miss Bffie the day. She looks as if she 
were goin' to be ill." 

My mother heard my last chapters with 
a little more patience than usual. Though 
I stumbled once or twice, she simply cor- 
rected me, and when I had finished, said : 

"There, Bffie, learn the sixth chapter 
for next Sunday. And let this be a lesson 
to you in future to have your tasks prepar- 
ed before you pretend to say them." 

Bridget brought in the tea-things earlier 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 19 

than usual, for my mother was going out 
to hear the escaped slave. After she was 
gone I retired to rest, and remained 
wrapped in oblivion till seven o'clock on 
Monday. 



c2 



20 



CHAPTER II. 

ON descending to breakfast next morn- 
ing, I was surprised to find my 
father quietly sipping his coffee, and look- 
ing in unusually good spirits. He had 
arrived by the early train from Edinburgh, 
and a pile of letters lay unopened before 
him. 

My father was a man who had apparent- 
ly seen about fifty Summers. His hair 
was of a bright brown, his whiskers red, 
and his eyes of that indescribable tint be- 
twixt grey and blue, which betokens keen- 
ness of observation without much depth of 
reflection. He was of good height, but 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 21 

one leg being slightly shorter than the 
other, he had acquired a shuffling gait, 
which detracted from the dignity of his ap- 
pearance when in motion. It seemed as if 
a shadow had settled down upon his face, 
a shadow through which one might read 
the tale of legitimate hopes disappointed. 
It was the look of a man who had not suc- 
ceeded in life, and was ready to impute the 
blame to others rather than to himself. 
My father was one of that numerous class 
of professional men who have been satisfied 
with attaining to the degree of proficiency 
in the technicalities of law or of medicine 
which just qualifies them for practising 
those arts, and who make no further effort 
to enlarge their mind by the acquisition of 
further knowledge. But as I made these 
reflections only at a somewhat later period, 
I have scarcely .the right to trouble my 
readers with them now. 

My father's countenance, however, shed 
that morning an unwonted radiance over 



22 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

our frugal table. Breakfast finished, he 
drew his chair in front of the fire and pro- 
ceeded to the perusal of his letters. At 
length he exclaimed : 

"Katie, dear, this is from my sister 
Helen. There it is, if you want to read it. 
She is coming by the twelve-o'clock train, 
and intends staying over night. How un- 
fortunate, when I've to go to Carlisle to- 
day on business. I must leave by the 
same train that she comes by." 

st But, John, where in the world are we 
to put her ?" 

" Oh, can't you give her our room, and 
sleep with Effie ? Or would it do to let 
Effie sleep with Helen ? I'm sure Helen 
wouldn't mind." 

If Helen wouldn't mind, Effie would. 
How I hated the idea ! For the few times 
when, my father being from home, I 
had resigned my room to another visitor, I 
had spent a night of perfect misery with 
my mother. If I ventured to stir hand or 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 2$ 

foot in the very slightest after being in 
bed, a punch between my shoulders always 
reminded me whom I was disturbing. Of 
the two, I thought I should prefer Aunt 
Helen ; but my childish recollections of 
her were, to say the least, hazy. 

" Effie," said my mother, " go and clear 
out part of your wardrobe, and help Bridget 
to put your room in order. Make every- 
thing very tidy, and get some flowers from 
the garden to put on the toilet-table." 

Until twelve o'clock I occupied myself 
in carrying out these directions. I helped 
Bridget to hang up some pretty muslin 
curtains in the window, and made the 
tables gay with pansies and mignonette. 
Then Bridget said, 

" Please, Miss Effie, missis said as you 
was to get ready and go with master to 
the train. You was to put on your Sunday 
dress." 

I was soon attired in a brown winsey, 
trimmed with Rob Roy tartan ; my wrists 



24 EPFIB MAXWELL. 

were encased in spotless linen cuffs, with 
gilt studs, and I felt as if I had reached 
the acme of human grandeur when I 
fastened with a pebble brooch the two ends 
of the crochet collar that encircled my 
throat. It was a wet day, and I saw with 
sorrow that this finery must be hidden 
under a very ugly garment. This was 
neither more nor less than a waterproof 
coat of which my father had got tired, and 
which my mother had cut down and made 
into an overall for me. It was not the 
nice soft waterproof so much used nowa- 
days, but a hard black stuff, repulsive to 
the touch, and unattractive to the eye. 
My mother had shaped it without sleeves, 

and buttoning down the front, and fur- 

« 

nished it with a hood to come over my hat ; 
so that, when it was on, no part of my 
person could be seen, excepting my feet 
and a little bit of my face. It was a per- 
fect martyrdom to me to wear it — not that 
I cared much about my looks, but, as I 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 25 

trotted on my mother's numerous errands 
into town, this nun-like costume exposed 
me to the jeers of the street boys, and to 
the amused smiles of the adult passers-by. 

I, however, pulled it heroically on, and 
sallied downstairs to the hall, where my 
father stood fastening his carpet-bag, sub- 
mitting, at the same time, to irregular 
strokes of the clothes-brush over his 
massive shoulders. The start he gave on 
seeing me nearly knocked that implement 
out of my mother's hand. 

"Katie, dear," he exclaimed, "is Bffie 
properly dressed to see her aunt ?" 

My mother surveyed me with an amused 
smile. 

"You may take your waterproof off, 
child," she said, " and put on your black 
jacket. Tou are going to the station in a 
fly. Your best bonnet too, remember." 
And she hastened into the parlour to give 
Bridget some further directions in the art 
of waiting at table. 



26 EFPIK MAXWELL. 

I did not need to be twice told. Having 
crowned the edifice of my toilette with the 
glory of Leghorn straw and blue ribbons, I 
underwent a minute inspection from my. 
mother, and then entered the fly which 
bore us quickly along the streets that to 
me had been the scene of many a weary 
tramp. The rain ceased as we arrived at 
one of those shabby little railway stations 
which are so common in the south and 
west of Scotland. The ticket distributor's 
desk, with its glaring spots of ink ; the 
dusty wooden benches fastened into the 
wall; the grimy windows looked more 
dismal than ever in the gloom of a sunless 
sky. The good people of Kilronan seemed 
anxious to show their very worst side to a 
passing traveller, but yet in justice to them 
I must say that the want of Aesthetic taste 
displayed in this building was almost com- 
pensated for by the tasteful flower-beds 
that sloped on each side of it down to the 
iron road, and relieved the monotony of 



_*n iimum ii i_ ja ^■■BP^mwiiMvnMMVsii 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 27" 

that wondrous highway by their profusion 
of fragrance and colour. This, however, 
could not be perceived from the interior of 
the stuffy ladies' waiting-room, where I sat 
until the bell rang. Then I went out and 
saw the hitherto listless forms of porters 
and travellers poised on the tip-toe of ex- 
pectation as the train came steaming up to 
the platform. My father scanned the car- 
riages as they passed* and when they had 
completely stopped, he walked up to the 
door of a first-class one and opened it. A 
lady in a black silk dress and gray burnous 
stepped out. There was nothing striking 
either in her countenance or her attire, 
but there was something in her language 
and manner that even to my childish eyes 
betokened a degree of refinement higher 
than that of my mother's habitual associ- 
ates in Kilronan. She- shook hands affec- 
tionately with my father. He explained to 
her that he had to leave immediately on 
business; and then she stood for a few~ 



28 BFFIE MAXWELL. 

minutes relating a fright she had got from 
a drunken fellow-passenger, whom the 
guard had removed at Carstairs. My father 
several times interrupted her by saying, 
"This is Effie, my daughter Bffie." At 
length he accompanied the intimation by 
laying his hand on my arm, thus making 
her suddenly conscious of my presence. 
She threw her arms round my neck, a 
darkness came over my eyes, and my face 
was almost drowned in a warm shower of 
kisses. Like a thirsty plain, my soul 
seemed to drink these kisses in, until it 
was full to overflowing, for I thought my 
aunt would never cease bestowing them. 
"When at length she released me, I observed 
that the train was moving off, my father 
waving his hand from a carriage window, 
:and a porter standing before us with a 
small black portmanteau, on which I read 
in white letters the inscription, " Mrs. Mac- 
lean, Edinburgh." And did not my heart 
give one little bound as I observed two of 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 29' 

the Miss Whites, and imagined that they 
looked somewhat surprised ? 

Having fully recovered from my as- 
tonishment — for I was half stunned by this 
display of affection — I took my aunt past 
the ticket-collector, and down a short 
flight of steps to where the fly stood wait- 
ing. The driver touched his hat, opened 
the door, and let us both in. My aunt 
held my hand in hers, and I related all I 
knew about the various churches, houses, 
and shops that we passed. And indeed 1 
Kilronan was a place worth looking at. 
Situated in a deep valley amidst the wild 
hills of Dumfries-shire, it was cut into two 
halves by a rapid stream, and was in every 
respect a model town for symmetry, clean- 
liness, and neatness, as well as for the 
good behaviour of its inhabitants. The 
old gaol was useful only as a standing 
menace to obstinate drunkards and mis- 
chievous school-boys; the streets were 
broad, well-paved, and well-drained; and 



30 EFPIE MAXWELL. 

if, after night-fall, the gas-lamps which 
adorned them gave a somewhat fitful glare, 
did not their fewness testify to the canni- 
ness of our respected Town Council ? 

For Kilronan was a royal burgh of ancient 
date, governed by its own municipal laws, 
and watched over by its own two police- 
men. Nor was it wanting in more sub- 
stantial advantages wherewith to attract 
prospective residents. Wealthy burghers 
had bequeathed to it, not only annuities 
for the deserving poor who had been 
born within its walls, or who were blessed 
with the surname of their several bene- 
factors—not only bursaries and prizes for 
its excellent educational establishments, 
but also those well-stocked sheep-farms 
from which the Bailies drew a revenue 
sufficient to keep the rates very low. It 
had become, therefore, the chosen abode of 
many gentle families in reduced circum- 
stances, and as these were mostly ladies, 
the few pensioned officers with which its 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 31 

society was sprinkled scarcely made up for 
the continual draught of its young men to 
the commercial capital on the Clyde. 

Various amusing stories were rife as to 
this dearth of beaux. The most amusing 
of these tales related to the excitement 
produced in a ladies' tea-party by one of the 
company who was standing at the window, 
exclaiming, " There's a man !" and the 
consequent destruction of the hostess's 
china in a rush for the gratification of 
feminine curiosity. 

Things were not quite so bad, however, 
as this story would represent them, and the 
Kilronan belles did not experience more 
difficulty in finding husbands than their 
sisters in other towns. Young men who 
had left it for business elsewhere, often 
called it a dead town ; but was it not des- 
tined in the future to have its volunteer 
rifle and artillery corps ? — and had it not 
even, now its bowling, golfing, archery, and 
curling clubs ? — its periodical bazaars in aid 



32 BFPIB MAXWELL. 

of new churches and schools, and those 
famous battles between its Dean of Guild 
and its Town Clerk, respecting the exact 
status of the latter functionary, which have 
filled the columns of the leading Scottish 
journals, and the issue of which was of 
such vast moment to all burghs of shorter 
lineage ? For the charter which confirmed 
to us our privileges had been signed by the 
gracious Duncan, and was itself merely the 
recital of a still older charter which no one 
could now decipher. 

And had not a celebrated case in the 
Court of Teinds stirred periodically for 
seventy years to fever heat all the cleri- 
cal blood of Scotland? — a case in which 
the heritors sought to determine the 
exact amount of stipend to which the 
minister was entitled, and in which they 
had paid twice as much to their legal as to 
their spiritual adviser. That case was not 
determined yet, but the proceedings had 
somehow been suffered to lapse, or perhaps 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 33 

been rendered unnecessary by recent legis- 
lation. 

The parish pulpit was occupied by an un- 
popular pastor, the bulk of whose congre- 
gation had gone out at the Disruption, and 
built the little edifice with the graceful 
spire which looked down somewhat exult- 
ingly on the barn-like simplicity of its 
Relief and Secession sisters. The parish 
steeple had been struck by lightning, and 
the holes which its fall occasioned in the 
church roof remained still unrepaired, a 
standing memento of the heritors' parsi- 
mony. 

Some wag, indeed, at the time the acci- 
dent happened, had pointed to the mass 
of debris encumbering the pulpit with the 
remark that " it had not been so well filled 
for a long time." Such as it was, however, 
the parish church, with its surrounding 
graveyard, overlooking the rushing stream, 
was a highly picturesque object; and it 
was with a glow of pardonable pride that I 

VOL. I. D 



34 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

pointed it out to my aunt, and drew her 
attention likewise to the long green stretch 
of the Golf fields, dotted with yellow 
clusters of furze bushes ; to the old-fashion- 
ed villas, with their gardens of dahlias 
sloping downward to the water's edge, that 
of the provost being distinguished by a tall 
flag-staff and a gilded lamp-post in front of 
the door. I was gratified when she express- 
ed admiration for the handsome stone 
bridge that spanned our stream, and for 
the chaste elegance of our new Town Hall. 
And as we passed the windows of that 
prince of drapers, Mr. Russell, before whose 
gorgeous shop front all lesser tradesmen 
might well resolve to close their shutters, I 
experienced a sense of secure respectability 
in thinking that we were frequent custom- 
ers of that dignified bailie and possible pro- 
vost. I feared my aunt's good opinion of 
the place might suffer as we passed the 
ligly gas-works just on the outskirts of the 
town, and some hundred yards distant from 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 35 

Ruby Cottage, at whose open door my 
mother stood waiting to receive us. 

My mother was attired in a grey merino, 
ornamented with large black buttons. Her 
somewhat pinched face, lighted by a pair of 
blue eyes, was encircled by a black lace 
cap, and an exquisite pair of little gold 
filigree earrings dangled from her tiny ears. 
Her thin lips wore an expression of greater 
cordiality than usual as she kissed her 
sister-in-law, and said: "How well you 
look f ' and then commanded me to conduct 
her upstairs to our bed-chamber. 

"And this is your room, is it?" said 
Aunt Helen, as she crossed its threshold, 
somewhat overpowered by the scent of 
musk and mignonette. "What a lovely 
view it has, and what a beautiful little 
bed !" She bent for a moment over my 
saucers of flowers, took off her travelling 
habiliments, and then went into the 
drawing-room, which was on the same 
floor. In a few minutes my mother 

d2 



36 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

announced that dinner was ready, and then 
said : 

" Would you not like to see something 
of the country, as you are here so seldom ? 
I can send Bridget to order a carriage, and 
we might pay a visit to the Deil's Beef 
Tub, which is on the road between this 
and Moffat, five miles away. We can 
easily get back before sunset, and I am 
sure Effie would enjoy it." 

It was a strange idea to me that my 
mother should think of my enjoyment* 
How grateful I felt to her ! Oh ! if she 
had only given me a few more glimpses of 
a like nature, how much happier both our 
lives might have been ! A drive was one 
of the rarest events in my existence. My 
father sometimes mounted me on the back 
seat of Mr. Taylor's dogcart, whenever 
that worthy farmer's affairs demanded 
such immediate attention as to induce him 
to send it. My father was in the legal 
line of business — was what in Scotland is 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 37 

termed a writer, but a writer in a very 
small way. Whether it was want of 
talent, or want of opportunity, I never 
found out — in fact, I now fancy it was the 
former — he had never managed to compete 
for custom with Mr. Rose, an able solicitor, 
who likewise resided in Kilronan. Per- 
haps his presence there had even been an 
element in Mr. Rose's success. Lawyers 
aref proverbially lost when alone. One 
will starve where two would thrive, and in 
this case, fortunately for Mr. Rose, though 
perhaps unfortunately for my father, the 
two were of very different dispositions, and 
my father took up the law-suits which 
Mr. Rose had done his best to discourage. 
Some fishes must unquestionably have come 
to his net, for we lived in comparative 
comfort. We had always had two servants 
ever since I could remember, though the 
neighbours said that my mother had 
brought no dowry with her. She was the 



38 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

daughter of a poor curate, who lived across 
the border. 

. It was, therefore, with a feeling of pride 
that I found myself that afternoon seated 
opposite to my mother and Aunt Helen — 
felt myself being drawn by two horses, 
and observed one or two of the children, 
whose faces were familiar to me at church, 
turn round and look to see if that was 
really Bffie Maxwell in a carriage. 

Our road, after leaving the town, ran 
for some distance near the edge of a broad 
shallow stream, from which it was sepa. 
rated by an irregular row of birches and 
willows. Their branches were laden with 
glistening drops, and the air had that soft 
balminess which is only felt when the sun 
shines warmly after heavy rain. We soon 
left the side of the gurgling stream, and 
began ascending the hills by a steep, wind- 
ing road. The landscape had a character 
very common in the extreme north of Eng- 
land and the south of Scotland — round 



BETIB MAXWELL. 30 

hills of no great height, surmounted by 
long stretches of upland moor, where both 

sheep and grouse spent their lives nibbling 

* 

at heather and bracken. It had been the 
scene of some of those Covenanting stories 
which I had procured from the church 
library, and Aunt Helen's kind smile made 
me more loquacious than I usually ventured 
to be in my mothers presence. I do not 
know what spell she possessed to draw me 
out, but I rattled away about Peden the 
Prophet, and Margaret Wilson, and Mause 
Headrigg, in total disregard of the signs 
of annoyance my mother frequently showed 
by biting her lips. My aunt sometimes 
interrupted the flow of my eloquence to 
ask some local particular of my mother, 
and on one occasion, as they were speaking 
of a shepherd whose cottage we had passed, 
and whose children had all been carried off 
by cholera, I asked — 

"Aunt Helen, have you any children 
yourself ?" 



40 BFP1E MAXWELL. 

I saw at once that I had done something 
wrong. My mother bit her lips harder 
than ever, and Aunt Helen looked inex- 
pressibly sorrowful. My mother turned 
the conversation by asking if my aunt had 
read Aytoun's " Scottish Cavaliers " ; and, 
on receiving a negative answer, she exerted 
herself to talk until we reached the summit 
of the hill where the road descended in the 
direction of Moffat, and the driver pointed 
out a deep round valley beneath us as the 
veritable Beef Tub. The infant waters of 
the Annan murmured and sparkled over 
the white rocks in its hollow bosom, and, 
as the declining sun cast streaks of light 
over the purple blossoms on its sides, it 
was difficult for imagination to recall 
the days when it had acquired its pe- 
culiar designation, the days when law- 
less Border chieftains harried the conn- 
try, and drove the cattle for miles round 
into itB depths, for the purposes of 
and salting. The memory of 



EPPIE MAXWELL. 41 

Claverhouse's treatment of the Covenanters 
had earned for the spot its more unenviable 
title. 

We did not remain long, for the sun was 
getting ever nearer to the western horizon, 
and the varied tints of the hills were be- 
coming glorified by the yellow and rosy 
brilliance of its last rays. We proceeded 
on our homeward journey at a swifter pace 
than our former one ; but our enjoyment 
of the sunset was marred ere we reached 
Kilronan by some heavy drops of rain. 

The driver stopped for a few minutes, 
and raised a hood which covered the back 
part of the carriage. My mother made me 
sit on the floor, and gave me her umbrella, 
one edge of which rested on the seat I had 
just vacated. Aunt Helen made me lean 
my head against her knee, and laid one of 
her soft hands against my cheek unper- 
ceived in the darkness. I felt like a bird 
that has returned to its nest after long 
wandering on a stormy night. And yet I 



42 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

had never known Aunt Helen till that day. 
Oh ! the transforming power of human 
affection ! During that short hour the 
world seemed beautiful to me, as if the 
breath of sin had never withered its flowers. 
Life promised to prove a perpetual feast of 
music — a prelude to the raptures of the 
angelic choirs. And a few sweet kisses 
from a stranger's lips, a few soft touches 
of a woman's hand, had thus unlocked the 
sealed fountains of my soul! I often 
thought over that day's occurrences in 
after-life. Like the Alpine traveller, who, 
hurrying down from the gloomy steeps of 
the Simplon, first beholds the sunny lakes 
of Italy, and scents the fragrance of the 
orange blossoms — like the blue mountain 
floweret that has slept beneath the snow, 
and wakens to feel the glowing warmth of 
Summer — like the butterfly that bursts 
from its dark prison-house, — so I, a young 
human soul, rose at the first accents of 
friendship and of love, to see Heaven and 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 4$ 

earth flooded with a golden radiance. v 

The umbrella dripped, however, and I 
was very wet when we stopped at our own 
door. Bridget assisted me to change my 
attire, and a cup of hot tea soon removed 
all the bad effects of my soaking. After 
prayers we retired for the night, Aunt 
Helen feeling rather fatigued. 

I insisted on brushing her hair, which 
was of a slightly darker brown than my 
own. She seemed exceedingly pleased 
with this little attention. How well I 
remember how the soft silken tresses 
curled round my fingers, and how dainty 
her little feet looked in their red slippers 
as they rested on the fender while she sat 
before the fire. I occupied a stool by her 
side. 

" You look very happy, Effie," she said, 
"and I hope you may be so for a long 
time. But life has its trials, may they sit 
more lightly on you than they have done 
on me !" 



44 BFHB MAXWELL, 

She pressed her handkerchief to her 
•eyes and moaned. Then a tear rolled 
-down her sunburnt cheek as she looked at 
me. 

" Bffie, I once had a daughter like you. 
I have had other children, but God has 
taken them away. I do want some one's 
love, for I have lost so much. Will you 
love me like my own child ?" 

" Oh ! aunt, you needn't ask me," said I, 
•creeping up on her knee and kissing her. 
4i I do love you so, so much." 

"And you always will, my child," she 
«aid with a sad smile. 

I sat for a long time with my arm round 
her neck, my face buried in her bosom. 
Then she asked me to read her a few verses 
•of the fourteenth chapter of John. She 
knelt with me at my little bed, and with 
her arm round my waist, she poured out a 
prayer for my future welfare, both in this 
world and the next — a prayer I shall never 
forget while I have the consciousness of 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 45* 

being. Oh, how unworthy am I to have 
been the object of such tender solicitude 1 
Dear Aunt Helen ! could I think that one^ 
of my lightest kisses, or that a touch of" 
this foolish little hand may have lightened 
for one instant thy heavy load of sorrow r 
it would be worth enduring all I have 
endured, and would make me feel that my 
life has not been an altogether useless one- 

I slept the sleep of the happy. The sun- 
shine streaming in at the windows awoke 
me, and Bridget's knock awoke Aunt 
Helen. Whilst dressing I gave her a rat- 
tling account of my studies, and she seemed 
pleased at the display of my powers of 
memory. 

Our breakfast was a truly Scottish one. 
The table literally groaned under thfr 
weight of boiled and fried bacon, eggs, 
sausages, chicken and tongue, soda scones 
and oatcakes of my mother's manufacture, 
and hot rolls from the baker's. Aunt 
Helen did it little justice, and for once I 



46 EFflE MAXWELL. 

resisted the temptation of straying beyond 
my usual plate of porridge and milk. When 

« 

the cloth was removed my mother said, 

" Effie, your aunt is going away by the 
twelve o'clock train. Go into the garden 
and gather her a pretty bouquet. Do not 
-come in till I call you." 

Aunt Helen going away ! My enjoyment 
had been of short duration. Our garden 
was laid out in the old-fashioned style. A 
high stone wall covered with apple-trees 
surrounded it ; the single Winter pear-tree 
bore its hard crop yearly beside the arbour 
and the sundial at the farther end of the 
long straight gravel-walk which ran up the 
centre, and which was separated from the 
vegetables and the gooseberry and straw- 
berry beds by a high white paling, up 
which a few dwarf fruit-trees had been 
trained, and between which, and each side 
•of the centre walk, were the broad beds 
which contained my f athers favourite roses. 
Yesterday the sheen of diamonds had lain 



BFPIE MAXWELL. 47 

on rose-bush and apple-blossom; to-day 
the tall lilies seemed to hang their heads 
sadly, and the little ranunculuses to creep 
closer to the ground, as if they feared a 
passing footstep. 

My mother called me at last; the fly 
*was at the door. Aunt Helen sat in the 
parlour, equipped for her journey, I 
thought I could see the traces of tears on 
her cheek. She called me to her, closed 
the door, and said, 

"Effie, it is possible you may never see 
me again, for I am going away to Aus- 
tralia for a long, long time. I don't know 
why I have taken such a love for you . You 
are very, very like " 

Here an expression of intense pain dis- 
figured her mouth, and prevented her com- 
pleting the sentence. She placed her hand 
on the chimney-piece, and laid her face 
down upon it, in order to master some 
terrible emotion. Raising it in a few 
minutes, she continued : 



48 EFPIB MAXWELL. 

" Your mamma thinks it would be good 
for you to write to me sometimes, and tell 
me how you are getting on with your 
studies. Will you do so, my dear ?" 

" Oh ! yes, Aunt Helen, if you will write 
to me sometimes, too, and tell me how you 
like Australia." 

" I will, darling," she said, kissing me. 
a And now put on your hat, for I see your 
mamma has got into the fly, and she said 
you were to go to the station with us." 

I was not long in obeying her directions. 
And as the cruel train at length bore her 
out of sight, I felt as if my childhood from 
that hour passed away, and as if I had 
entered on a new life full of solemnity and 
mystery. 



49 



CHAPTER III. 

1,1 OUR years had passed away since that 
-*- eventful nighfc. I may not have be- 
come more womanly in appearance, but my 
mind had ripened very rapidly. Manjr of 
those puzzling questions which have per- 
plexed metaphysicians in all ages had pre- 
sented themselves in a half-formed state 
before my youthful reason ; and my multi- 
farious reading had not only given place to 
deep meditations, but likewise to sundry 
secret attempts to embody these medita- 
tions in verse, I had made great progress 
in Latin, in mathematics, in English his- 
tory, and in the rudiments of French and 

VOL. I. E 



50 BFFIB MAXWELL. 

German. I had also attended for two 
hours daily at Miss McPougall's school for 
young ladies, and received high praise for 
my vocal and instrumental performances. 
But my mother never allowed me to touch 
the piano at home. I gave her a headache, 
she said, and as neither of my parents ever 
called on Miss McDougall, they had no 
idea of the encomiums which that lady be- 
stowed so lavishly on me. Once every six 
months I received a letter from Aunt 
Helen, a letter full of good advive and of 
entertaining descriptions ; and once every 
three months I forwarded to her one in 
return. My father always perused these 
compositions, and made me re-write every 
sheet which came short in point of gram- 
mar or caligraphy. It was from him that 
all my mental instruction had been received. 
To educate me seemed the one serious pur- 
pose of his existence, and it was an occu- 
pation of which he never wearied. 

The monotony of our life was occasion- 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 51 

ally varied by visits from Uncle Robert and 
his only son Fred, a lad about two years 
younger than myself. Uncle Robert was 
much richer than my father, having chosen 
the mercantile profession, and made money 
very rapidly. He was a stout man, of 
florid complexion, with blue eyes and 
silvery hair. He was generally attired in 
a black coat of remarkably fine texture, 
grey tweed under-garments, white waist- 
coat, and black neck-tie with blue spots. 
He was by no means a favourite of my 
mother's, being, if truth must be told, of a 
somewhat meddlesome disposition. The 
numerous rings which sparkled on his 
round soft fingers did not act as talismans 
to prevent those fingers from touching 
everything. When he entered the room, 
a throb went through the wooden heart of 
every picture which was not hanging 
straight ; and the gas flowed through the 
pipes with a presentiment that its purity 
would soon be put to the test. He was 

e 2 



52 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

intimately acquainted with every detail of 
household management, and when he 
visited us would rust my mother s bright 
steel grate in cooking his own egg for 
breakfast. He knew the time when the 
kitchen floor was scrubbed, and could tell 
the exact length of sweep the cook gave 
her arm in performing that operation. In 
short, he presented the painful spectacle 
of old age dissociated from its proper 
dignity. 

Nor was there much love lost between 
my mother and Fred. Fred had inherited 
his father's fair hair and blue eyes, besides 
a full share of his father's restless tempera- 
ment. His mother's death had been a 
great grief to him, and one day, as he 
poured out to me amongst the raspberry 
bushes the tale of his loneliness, I pro- 
posed that we should no longer be con- 
tented with the title of cousin, but should 
adopt the more affectionate ones of brother 
and sister. Fred was going to be a 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 53 

doctor ; but from a very early period he 
displayed a much greater taste for pre- 
scribing than for studying. His father 
was no scholar, and cherished the idea 
that the only thing necessary for success 
in the medical profession was the obtaining 
of a diploma. And he loudly proclaimed 
that he intended to disinherit Fred, if Fred 
should not succeed in that achievement. 
So the poor boy had to overcome his 
natural distaste for books, and I did him 
real service by helping him to prepare 
his lessons for the ensuing school term. 
He would often have preferred getting me 
into the woods blackberrying, but I knew 
too well what the consequences to him 
would be, should his mind remain unim- 
proved ; and I received my reward in the 
gratified vanity which his unbounded ad- 
miration for my mental acquirements 
inspired. 

Nor was Fred's companionship without 
effect upon me. His buoyant spirits swept 



54 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

and dashed above, beneath, and around 
me, like the waves, which, lifting a 
stranded sea-weed, give a brighter tinge 
to its delicate leaves ; they floated me, so 
to speak, and made me display all my more 
sociable qualities. We often worked in 
the garden together. Every walk had 
been carefully weeded by our nimble 
fingers, and some of the smaller beds had 
had their plants dug up and re-arranged 
a dozen times. Ours were the hands that 
stripped the currant bushes when their 
clusters were to be preserved, and the great 
pear-tree when the frost threatened to nip 
its produce. We had acted as allies in 
many a battle with the tough roots of the 
dandelions ; and as rivals in collecting the 
soft seeds of the anemone. We had almost 
poisoned ourselves with eating stranga 
berrips, and rubbed the skin off our cheeks 
in the vain attempt to make them rosy 
with elm leaves. One day I was standing 
near the top of the centre walk trying to 



EFF1E MAXWELL. 55 

explain to Fred the action of the sun's 
rays on the dial, when he exclaimed : 

" Effie, I'm sure you've learnt all Uncle 
Andrew can teach you — why don't they 
send you to school ? I'm sure you'd beat 
all the girls there. But I don't know what 
a girl wants to know so much for. Come, 
shut up your book, and let's have a pull at 
the gooseberries." 

The top of a black hat now made its 
appearance amidst the dark hop-leaves that 
almost closed up the entrance to the little 
arbour ; beneath it shone the twinkling 
blue eyes of Uncle Robert. 

" To school !" exclaimed that gentleman. 
" Yes, they are going to send her to school. 
Who told you that, you young rascal ?" 

11 Nobody told me," answered Fred, sulki- 
ly, giving a kick to the football with which 
he had lately been playing. 

" Your father was explaining to me, 
Effie," said Uncle Robert, " that you are to 
go, after the New Year, to some place in 



56 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

England — Cheltenham, I think. Do you 
want to go ?" 

" I'm sure I don't know," said I, looking 
rather rueful at this unexpected piece of 
intelligence. 

"Well, I don't see why he don't send 
you to Edinburgh. But then they want 
you to get the English accent — as if you 
hadn't got it from your mother already! 
But there is one thing you must take care 

of." 

" What is that ?" I asked. 

"Your heart. Not that you'll have 
much chance to lose it ; but don't throw it 
away on them dandified Englishers. Keep 
it till you get back to Scotland. And, 
above all, don't give the half to one, and 
the other hfclf to another." 

" I'm sure nobody will want any of it," 
said I. 

" Oh, I don't know. That's how all you 
girls talk, cunning minxes that you are ! 
And them inute after you're slily peeping 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 57 

about to see if any of the young fellows 
are looking at you. I'm glad I've got 
none; they would be worse, a hundred 
times, than Fred. Now, if you feel like 
losing your heart, just write and tell me 
about it. I'll come and look after it for 

you." 

" Effie would be a great fool to entrust 
you with the care of it," said my father, 
coming up behind me with some roses in 
his hand. " Why, you can't take a railway 
journey without losing your own. But 
what are you talking to Effie in that style 
for?" 

" I was telling her that you mean to 
send her to Cheltenham, and to be careful 
how she conducts herself there." 

" Oh ! you've told her, have you ? Well, 
Effie, your mother and I think you have 
come to the time when a change will be 
good for you. There are some accomplish- 
ments that you cannot possibly be taught 
at home. And you will be able to measure 



58 EFFfE MAXWELL. 

your acquirements with those of other girls 
of your age. I hope your conduct will be 
such as to obtain the approval of your 
teachers." 

" When am I to go ?" asked I. 

" The next term begins after the New 
Year. Your mother has got the prospectus 
of a first-rate establishment. We have 
written to the lady, and she has consented 
to receive you. My only difficulty is, how 
you are to get there. I think I must 
accompany you myself, and then I shall 
have some idea what the place is like." 

" I might take her for that matter," said 
Uncle Robert. 

11 Not at present," said my father, laugh- 
ing. "But, if you are going to England 
next Summer, perhaps I shall take advan- 
tage of your kindness, and ask you to bring 
her home for the holidays." 

The night following this conversation 
was spent by me in no very pleasant re- 
flections. My mother's plan of education 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 5& 

had made me a good scholar, but a rather 
indifferent member of society. Never having 
been accustomed to the sports of childhood, 
I felt myself incapable of the social inter- 
course which seemed so pleasant to others. 
Through Mr, "Wardlaw's preaching I had 
become familiar with the great truths of 
morality that are unfolded in the Bible ; 
and my own conscience confirmed my 
mother's declaration that I had failed to 
satisfy their requirements. Not only had 
forbidden books assuaged my thirst for 
knowledge, but sundry pieces of loaf sugar 
had found their way from the cupboard to 
my pocket. And at the ladies' Dorcas 
sewing-meeting, had I not,been sent home 
before the provisions which each member 
had brought with her were transferred 
from the vestry to the session-room ? And 
after I had put on my hat in the said 
vestry, did not a plentiful supply of sweet 
cakes go home under my cloak for the 
delectation of myself and Bridget ? These 



60 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

peccadilloes remained undiscovered, it is 
true, but, none the less, memory would 
keep saying to me : u Effie, you are not a 
woman of honour !" 

And then my reputation was so very 
indifferent. I had at length come to 
believe my mother's assertion — that there 
was nobody in the world whom I could 
possibly love. One bright gleam of sun- 
shine had enlivened my past life, but that 
gleam was not again likely to fall on my 
path. And what opinion were strangers 
likely to form of me, even supposing that 
they should receive no hint of my real 
■character from my mother ? I had been 
brought up in the country, had seen almost 
no society, and was not likely to possess 
much refinement of manner. I should cer- 
tainly be considered awkward, vulgar, 
•common. I was very often told that I 
was plain-looking. Yet I had read of 
people who were awkward and plain-look- 
ing, but who were loved because they were 



BPFIB MAXWELL. 61 

good. Might I not some day be loved for 
a similar reason ? Here was an oppor- 
tunity for reform. I hoped very earnestly 
that my mother would not write about me- 
to my new instructors, and should it happen 
that they trusted me, I would abjure all 
my cunning ways, and try to show myself 
worthy of such trust. I wbuld be diligent 
and truthful — it was surely not my fault if 
I could not be affectionate. 

No human heart, save one, had ever 
unsealed to me its fountains of sympathy. 
Shut out from the affections of others, the 
latent tenderness of my nature had occa- 
sionally been evoked by some frail speci- 
men of the brute creation. I had once or 
twice managed to conceal and nourish a 
stray kitten. Bitter were the tears that 
were shed when my playthings were dis- 
covered and drowned. But before Aunt 
Helen's visit, my saddest moments had 
been connected with the fate of rabbits and 
of butterflies- 



'62 BPFIE MAXWELL. 

The rabbits came into my possession 
•during a visit I paid to Uncle Robert's 
when my mother had scarlet fever. I 
rejoined her at Portobello after her 
recovery, and was allowed to take my pets 
there with me. I built a house for them 
out of sundry old provision boxes, and in 
the hedgerows I procured sufficient store 
of herbs for their sustenance. But one Sun- 
day morning I spilt some milk over the 
breakfast- table, and was condemned to 
stay in my room all day and learn some of 
the Psalms by heart. I knew that my 
darlings were starving ; but vain were my 
entreaties that some one would go and 
feed them. After passing a sleepless night, 
I was informed that Josephine was ill with 
convulsions in the kitchen, and went down 
to find that she had died and Jupiter had 
escaped. I was forced to leave Napoleon 
and Juno behind when we went home, and 
for a time I found life a blank without them. 

But it was the other trial that made 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 63 

my heart ache most painfully. It hap- 
pened also during our stay at Porto- 
bello. I had always loved butterflies. To 
me they were not animals, but embodied 
sunbeams, flitting from flower to flower, 
ravishing both heart and eye with the hues 
of heaven. My mother had gone out to 
call on some friends. I slipped into her 
room, and to my surprise found some of 
these ethereal creatures transfixed to a 
piece of cardboard by needles run through 
their bodies. I tried to release them and 
send them out to bask in the sunshine, but 
all my effort could not free them from the 
steely darts. It was most distressing to 
see them fluttering about the carpet with 
these instruments of torture in their 
bodies. I had reluctantly to retire, and 
was sent supperless to bed when my mother 
found that I had meddled with them. I 
peeped into a book of natural history, and 
learnt that by merely handling a butterfly 
you brush the dust off its wings and cause 



64 EFFIK MAXWELL. 

it exquisite pain. Oh, what an agony 
of remorse did that knowledge inflict on 
me ! I felt as if my heart ought to be cut 
out of my bosom and given to the vultures. 
And who knows but that the great Creator 
of all takes the same note of the death of 
a butterfly as He does when the spark of 
merely animal existence is extinguished in 
some member of His human family ? 

Although these reflections on the past 
will show the reader that I had not re- 
ceived the full share of sympathy to which 
a child is morally entitled, yet I should be 
doing injustice to my fellow-creatures were 
I to say that none of those with whom I 
was brought into frequent contact had 
ever manifested an interest in my happi- 
ness. Though I had been the companion 
of my father's holidays, I was scarcely old 
enough to comprehend his graver pursuits, 
and from the nature of the case he had 
remained a total stranger to the earnest 
view of life which perplexed my 'restless 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 65 

fancy. He had once or twice remarked 
that I was too thoughtful for my years, but 
he never could have suspected from what 
quarter the shadows were thrown across 
my childish path. There was another pair 
of watchful eyes which had more opportu- 
nity than his of marking the unevenness of 
that path. On the afternoon of the fol- 
lowing day I obtained leave to go and 
acquaint the possessor of those eyes with 
the change in my prospects. 



VOL. I. F 



66 



CHAPTER IV. 

BETTY was an old woman who lived in 
a back street. There are plenty of 
old women who live in back streets, but 
few who have played their part in life so 
bravely as Betty. No one could make a 
guess at her age. She had been called 
" Old Betty " even before the death of the 
Rev. Mr. Menzies, minister of the Seces- 
sion church, in whose service she had • 
remained since her girlhood. Mr. Menzies 
had died several years before I was born. 
He left Betty an annuity of twenty pounds 
a year, a sum which, added to her own 
savings, raised her above the fear of want, 



BFP1E MAXWELL. 67 

and enabled her to maintain an establish- 
ment of her own. That establishment 
consisted of a single room with a window 
facing the street, and a door entering off a 
stone-paved passage common to herself and 
the other occupants of the tenement. The 
door of the passage which entered off the 
street was approached by a couple of steps. 
No passer-by ever saw Betty washing these 
steps, but whether it was that her landlord 
liked to give her respectable neighbours, or 
whether Betty's own reputation and influ- 
ence had the effect of making them put 
their best foot foremost, certain it is that 
those steps and that passage always ex- 
hibited a picture of immaculate purity. 
Betty's own little room was snugness itself. 
The kettle sang merrily on its " swee," as 
the iron hook and chain were called which 
held it at due distance from the glowing 
embers. No speck of dirt could be de- 
tected on the whitened flag-stones of the 
floor, or on the polished window-panes, half 

f2 



68 EFFIK MAXWELL. 

veiled by their screen of spotted muslin. 
The very ashes seemed to drop betwixt the 
stone bars as if they knew the appointed 
place of their falling. 

The fireplace was opposite the entrance 
door ; the right side of the room was occu-? 
pied by the window, and by a sofa with a 
table in front of it. The wall immediately 
above the sofa was almost entirely covered 
by a fine oil portrait of Mr. Menzies, a. 
facsimile of which hung in the session- 
room of the Burgher church, where Betty's 
reverent hands from time to time freed it 
from its accumulated dust, not without 
sorrowful wonder that " siccan a guid man 
should be sae sune negleckit." On the. 
left side, facing the window, was a recess, 
into which were built the planks of Betty's 
bed/ adorned in front by its dimity cur- 
tains, and half concealing a luxurious 
patchwork counterpane, into whose com- 
position silk, velvet, and calico of every 
imaginable hue blended in a design worthy 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 69 

to have sprung from the brain of the best 
Persian carpet manufacturer. An eight- 
day clock occupied the foot of the space be- 
twixt the bed and the door of the store 
closet; whilst betwixt the said door and 
that guarding the threshold stood a small 
mahogany chest of drawers, surmounted 
by a thick white-knitted toilet-cover and a 
looking-glass. Humbly furnished as it 
was, this small apartment nevertheless con- 
tained two mysteries — the one an enigma 
to the childish mind, the other to that of 
the advanced social economist. 

The first was neither more nor less than 
the mechanism of the eight-day clock, 
which was not like most of its species, 
encased in a box. The actions of its 
weights and of its pendulum were visible 
to the naked eye, and were as great a 
source of interest to all Betty's young 
friends as were the one or two lozenges 
which she never failed to produce for their 
benefit from the capacious pockets of her 



70 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

drugget petticoat. The greater mystery- 
was, however, unquestionably the store- 
closet, over whose sacred threshold no 
foot, save Betty's, had passed for years. 
Here she kept her cooking utensils, her 
china, her store of provisions, and last, not 
least, a wonderful cask of wine, which 
never ran dry, but which was apt to vary 
in the nature of its contents from rich 
home-made currant to India pale sherry, 
both of a quality which might be accu- 
rately ascertained by that of the beverages 
in vogue in the houses where Betty visited ; 
nor was she chary of affording opportuni- 
ties for such an investigation. No visitor 
ever left her house without being pressed 
to partake of something "quite out of the 
ordinar;" and ample time was afforded for 
the appreciation of its goodness whilst 
Betty related how she had become possess- 
ed of it. 

Her house being near to both the Free 
and Secession churches, the female mem- 



EFPIB MAXWELL. 71 

i 

bers of both congregations made it a 
rendezvous "between sermons" on rainy 
Sundays. It would certainly not have 
accommodated all who had the right of 
entree ; but when the ladies and children of 
a family resolved to take shelter there, and 
perceived on passing the window that the 
room was already full, they simply moved 
on to dry their wet garments at home. 
And even on fine Sundays the good 
woman seldom failed of visitors. Some 
bread and butter, along with a glass of her 
excellent wine, was all she had to offer 
them, but that was eaten with the relish 
which the most fastidious feels for food to 
which he is heartily welcome. To have 
refused some refreshment would have been 
felt by Betty as a personal insult ; and to 
have offered her money in return would 
have wounded her feelings to the quick. 
I do believe that if you had given her a 
five-pound note she would never have 
understood that it was meant for herself. 



72 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

She would have said : " This is more than 
I can distribute at once— it will give me 
too much thought — five shillings at a time 
is enough for me." 

The principal occupation of Betty's life 
was visiting the afflicted. The moment 
she heard of a case of sickness among rich 
or poor, she would put a " gathering coal" 
over her little fire, open her window slight- 
ly from the top, draw down her blind, lock 
her door, hang the key on a nail outside, 
and sally forth to see if she could be of 
any use. But she seldom took on herself 
the responsibilities of nursing. Where the 
patient was in easy circumstances, she was 
satisfied when she saw that the attendants 
were doing their duty, and her foot rested 
not till she had made all needful comforts 
flow towards the homes of the destitute. 
Where means were not forthcoming, Betty 
scrupled not to become a beggar, and as 
she showed a judicious impartiality in the 
arrangement of her appeals, she was always 



"-^^WP^W""^^ - ^ 



EPFIB MAXWELL. 73 

an eminently successful one. Accustomed 
to make both ends meet herself, she lost 
no opportunity of inculcating lessons of 
frugality on her poorer neighbours. I had 
an opportunity of witnessing this when on 
one of her numerous visits to Ruby Cot- 
tage she described the deplorable condition 
of her bedridden neighbour, Agnes Drum- 
mond, and I was moved to abstract six- 
pence from my slender store of pocket- 
money. Meeting Betty a week afterwards, 
I ventured to inquire what Agnes had said 
when she received it. 

" Na, Miss Effie," she replied, " I wasna 
that daft as to give her the siller. Nane 
can tell how she wad hae spent it." 

" Then you bought her some tea, per- 
haps," said I. 

" She could hae changed the tea for 
drink, if she had had ower muckle at 
ance," answered Betty. " Til e'en tell ye 
what I did wi' it. I went to Mrs. Law- 
rence, the grocer, an' I bought twopence- 



74 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

worth o' tea, and a halfpen'orth o' sugar. 
I spent a halfpenny on bread, a farthing 
on milk, and three farthings on butter. 
It's but a bite she'll tak' an' I hae still 
three halfpence left to spend on her the 
neist time I gang." 

I could not help surmising that Mrs. 
Lawrence must be in the habit of dealing 
better measure to Betty than to her more 
liberal-handed customers. 

Betty was no novice in visiting the sick. 
In her own estimation she had occupied a 
most responsible position as Mr. Menzies' 
servant; for as the reverend gentleman 
had neither wife nor child, during his fre- 
quent absences from home she felt that it 
devolved on her, as the only other member 
of his family, to show a kindly interest in 
the members of his flock, that those who 
were in affliction might feel they were not 
forgotten at the manse. It was thus that 
she had acquired her great experience, as 
well as her intimate acquaintance with all 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 75 

Kilronan ways. And when the calls on 
her sympathy were fewer, there were not 
wanting quarters in which her presence 
was found acceptable. 

To a few favoured families Betty was 
not chary of her visits. At Ruby Cottage 
it was her habit to enter by the front door r 
and after a long chat in the parlour with 
my mother, step into the kitchen or back 
yard, to make the acquaintance of a new 
servant, or say " How do you do ?" to an 
old one. If visitors were in the house, 
she simply said that she would call another 
day. And seldom did she leave without a 
well-filled basket under her arm. When 
she had the good luck to find my father 
at home, he always offered her a glass of 
wine, and then took her for a walk round 
the garden, in order to point out what 
vegetables were in season, and ascertain of 
what she might be in need. 

When she spent the day in some great 
houses, I believe she ate with the servants, 



76 EFFTE MAXWELL. 

-but as our dinner was an early one, my 
mother always caused a cover to be laid in 
the parlour for her after we had finished. 
I suspect that these were the only occa- 
sions on which she tasted meat. Her 
usual diet consisted of oatmeal porridge, 
with milk, to breakfast and supper, cheese 
^nd potatoes for dinner on week days, and 
a small basin of mutton broth, with barley 
or vegetables at haf-past four on Sundays. 
And though frugal herself she did not dis- 
dain to take part in promoting the enjoy- 
ment of others. 

When one of her richer friends resolved 
to give a dinner-party, before the guests 
were invited, care was always taken to 
ascertain that Betty would be disengaged. 
She would spend the morning in assisting 
to polish the table-glass and silver, she 
would take a kindly supervision of the 
kitchen preparations, dropping hints where 
hints seemed needed ; she would see that 
the waiters were up to their business, and 



EPPIB MAXWELL, 77" 

assist with her own aged hands in convey- 
ing the dishes to the dining-room door. 
Nay, more, she had even been known to 
don a white muslin cap, with pale blue- 
ribbons, tie a dainty apron over her best 
winsey gown, and help to hand the vege- 
tables. The lady of the house abandoned 
all thought of care when she knew that 
Betty was there ; and, strangest of all, no 
servant was ever known to resent her 
gentle interference. Her influence was 
like that of the sunlight, not the less real 
because it was noiseless. Few of the 
guests departed without bestowing on her 
some of those kind compliments which she 
valued more than money ; for Betty never 
accepted remuneration in coin; not even 
when she had filled a servant's place for a 
few days on an emergency. Her atten- 
tions were, to rich and poor alike, simply 
those of a friend. No wonder she was 
considered as much an institution of Kil- 



-' 



78 EPFIB MAXWELL. 

ronan as were its worthy Provost and 
Bailies. 

I sat for an hour in her room, and told 
my story. When I rose to say farewell she 
laid her withered hand on my shoulder and 
said a few serious words, which revealed 
to me that the stream of her kindness 
flowed from the perennial Fountain of 
Eternal Love. 



79 



CHAPTER V. 

TT was on the evening of a bright frosty 
-*- day that a cab carried my luggage, 
my father, and myself to the door of a 
large square house on the outskirts of 
Cheltenham. My father rang the bell, 
and told the cabman to wait for him. We 
were ushered into a cosy little drawing- 
room, and it was with mingled feelings of 
fear and curiosity that I first looked upon 
Miss Landor. 

Miss Landor was a lady of prepossessing 
appearance and graceful carriage. If an 
expression of great firmness had stamped 
itself into the corners of her small and 
well-formed mouth, it was relieved by the 



80 EFPIB MAXWELL. 

benevolent smile that beamed from her 
hazel eyes. A dress of striped grey and 
black silk set off to advantage her tall, 
lithe figure, and her whole bearing was 
that of one who felt that she represented 
the aristocracy of intellect, an aristocracy 
far too real to require any effort at self- 
assertion. She possessed the first great 
requisite to success in her profession, a 
remarkably robust physique, and, despising 
all conventional rules, her one great en- 
deavour was to make her pupils feel the 
earnestness of life. Magnifying her own 
office by setting herself to realize the ideal 
she had formed of it, she would have suc- 
ceeded in raising the accepted standard of 
female education, had she not been thwart- 
ed and baffled, not only by the backward 
state of many of the girls when first com- 
mitted to her care, but yet more by the low 
views of life entertained by the majority 
of their mothers. 

I may have been mistaken, but I fancy 



EFEIE MAXWELL. 81 

my father was rather embarrassed in her 
presence. After a few remarks on the* 
coldness of the weather, he bade her good- 
night, imprinted a ceremonious kiss on my 
cheek, said he hoped he should hear good 
accounts of me, and betook himself to the 
door. After he was gone; I stood rather 
sheepishly near the table. Miss Landor 
said in a kind tone : 

"You must be tired with your long 
journey. I hope you will soon feel at home 
here." She then rang the bell. " Powell," 
she said to the maid-servant who appeared, 
"will you give my compliments to Miss 
Walters, and say that I should be obliged 
by her coming here for an instant ?" 

Miss Walters was the English govern- 
ess. She was a bright looking little lady r 
with blue eyes, and long, fair curls. Aa 
she was much occupied with some of the 
younger pupils, she deputed one of the 
elder ones to superintend the unpacking of 
my boxes. This girl, whose name was 

VOL. I. G 



52 BPFIB MAXWELL. 

Emma Wells, by virtue of a distant relation- 
ship to Miss Landor, considered herself 
entitled to act the part of monitor over the 
others. She led me upstairs to a spacious 
apartment, in which stood six little iron 
l>eds, covered with snowy counterpanes. 
She showed me which was to be my bed, 
and which part of the wardrobe was to be 
appropriated to my use. But the appear- 
ance of my box soon altered her pleasant 
manner. 

" Dear me, Miss Maxwell, what a box ! 
One would think you had never seen any- 
thing before, to come to school with such 
a Noah's ark as that ! Wherever do you 
think it is going to stand ? Of course it 
must go down stairs ; but I am sure you 
must have a great deal too many things." 

I felt the tears rising to my eyes, — not 
for sorrow at the sentence passed on my 
box, but on account of the cynical tone in 
which it was pronounced. Here I could 
expect no heart sympathy, but must em- 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 83 

ploy my utmost efforts to maintain a cold 
propriety of demeanour. 

Each of my garments was subjected to a 
running fire of criticism before being con- 
signed to its proper place. 

Yes. I bad been right in my conjecture 
that a Scotch country girl would look very 
common and awkward. And there must 
be something unprepossessing in my appear- 
ance, else why were so few people kind to 
me, as Aunt Helen had been ? Miss "Wells, 
for instance, seemed to have taken a posi* 
tive aversion to me. 

Next day I expected to begin my studies. 
But Miss Landor had no time to arrange 
the classes, being very busy settling the 
hours when the various pianos were to be 
occupied, a work which she declared to be 
as difficult as one of Euclid's problems. I 
wandered for some time about the school- 
room, and at last became interested in one 
of the lesson books, Hughes's Physical 
Geography. The subject was to me a new 

g2 



84 EPMB MAXWELL. 

and interesting one. One of my com- 
panions, named Jane "Wakefield, looked 
over my shoulder, and said, 

u What is that you are reading ? You 
have not got to learn that." 

" It is a very nice book," I answered. 

" You'll not find it so nice when you've 
got to learn it." 

" That's my book, Miss Maxwell," said an 
angry voicfc. 

I turned to see who had spoken. The 
book was rudely snatched from my hand 
by a stout young lady, with a good deal of 
colour in her face. She had very black 
eyes and hair, and she seemed to me like 
some one I had seen before, I could not 
tell where. 

Miss Landor looked up from her work. 

" What is the matter, young ladies ?" she 
asked, with much dignity. 

The owner of the book started. She 
had not been aware that Miss Landor 
was in the room, and looked somewhat 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 85 

abashed. I really did not know what to 
say. 

" Well, are none of you going to answer ? 
Emma, do you know what they were 
quarrelling about ?" 

"I believe Miss Maxwell took one of 
Jessie Somerville's books, and wanted to 
keep it," answered Miss Wells. 

" Miss Maxwell," exclaimed Miss Landor, 
sternly, <c when your parents sent you here 
they intended that you should obey the 
rules." 

I sank sorrowfully into my seat. One 
of the older girls, who was seated before 
an easel, sketching, now rose, and, ap- 
proaching Miss Landor, said, 

"Please, Miss Charlotte, it was my 
sister's fault. Miss Maxwell did not know 
the rule, nor whose book it was. Jessie 
snatched it from her hand." 

" Well, Ada," said Miss Landor, smiling, 
" it was the first fault, and we will excuse 
it. Oh ! by-the-by, I had forgotten that 



86 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

Miss Maxwell comes from the same town 
as you do. Bffie, I hope you will know 
Miss Somerville." 

Ada Somerville bowed stiffly, and sat 
down to her drawing. Miss Wells looked 
very ill-pleased. 

After lunch we went for a walk, and 
returned a quarter of an hour before 
dinner-time. Jessie Somerville made some 
jesting remark about my hair, little think- 
ing how much pain she was giving me. 
During the few minutes that we waited in 
the school-room I could see that each girl 
had her own particular friend, whilst I sat 
alone, no one caring to talk to me. I have 
spent more than one unhappy day in the* 
course of my life, but I can truly say that 
seldom did I feel more utterly wretched 
than on this. 

Our Sundays were very pleasant days. 
"We went to church in the morning, and in 
the afternoon we repeated some hymns 
and verses to Miss Landor ; then the elder 



BFPIE MAXWELL. 87 

girls were each required to write out on a 
slate all they could recollect of the sermon. 
I was much gratified when Miss Landor 
commended my performance, and held me 
up as an example to the others. At length 
she rose, walked round the table, and, lay- 
ing hold of my two pigtails, gave my head 
a gentle pull. 

"Bffie, my child/' she said, "why do 
you wear your hair in such a dreadful 
fashion ? And tied with ribbon too ! Do 
you know what you remind me of? A 
cart-horse going to the fair/' 

There was a general titter among the 
girls, but such a good-natured one that I 
could not help joining in it myself. Miss 
Landor knew how to find fault without 
hurting one's feelings. 

u Mrs. Maxwell," she continued, in her 
clear, silvery voice, " wrote to me that she 
wished you to be plain in your attire ; but 
one may be plain without being a fright. 
Miss Walters, can you not think of a more 



88 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

elegant style for Effie ? Ada Somerville, 
you are a good hand at hair-dressing. 
Here is an opportunity for you to display 
jour talents, and plenty of material for 
you to work upon." 

Ada smiled, and answered : 

" Willingly, Miss Emma. I can find 
time after tea to-morrow by giving up a 
little of my practising." 

" Ah ! I know you Scotch keep Sunday 
so strictly. Well, we shall see if Effie does 
you credit." And Miss Landor left the 
room. 

After she was gone, the old sense of 
loneliness came over me. But not for 
long, for Miss Somerville, who was talking 
with the French governess, soon rose, and 
seated herself on a green baize-covered 
bench beside me. She wore a rich black 
silk dress, with a pretty lace frill and 
cameo brooch. I was dressed in a grey 
merino, with linen collar, and boasted no 
ornaments of any kind. I now noticed 



EFPIB MAXWELL. 89 

that she had very lustrous dark eyes, and 
a remarkably sweet smile. She took my 
hand in hers, and said, 

"I am afraid, Miss Maxwell, that you 
feel rather lonely." 

Surely that voice had once before rung 
in my ears ! But it was in vain to ques- 
tion my memory ; I could associate it with 
nothing familiar. And the face was cer- 
tainly new to me. Miss Somerville con- 
tinued : 

" You come from Dumfriesshire, do you 
not ?" 

" Yes, from Kilronan." 

" How strange ! "We come from Kil- 
ronan too. But I never heard your name 
before. Perhaps you have heard ours. It 
is Somerville. My father has the bank, 
and we live at the Priory." 

A light flashed across my mind. It 
must have been Miss Somerville's mother 
whom I once saw in Mr. Bussell's shop, 
and that accounted for my recognizing 



90 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

Jessie's face. She was the girl who said I 
was pretty. She had doubtless altered her 
opinion. 



91 



CHAPTEE VI. 

T KNOW not if it was the influence of 
-*- childish recollection, but Ada Somer- 
ville soon became the most interesting per- 
sonage in the school to me. My fairy- 
Princess had deigned to assume a form of 
flesh and blood, and to hold converse with 
ordinary mortals like myself. I loved to 
watch her water-colour paintings in their 
progress from sketch to finished landscape. 
I lingered on her accents as she repeated 
her lessons in the use of the globes or the 
Euclid class. And right glad was I to find 
niy youth no obstacle to my competing 
with her in such subjects. In French and 



92 EFPIE MAXWELL, 

German I strained every nerve to obtain 
that promotion which would bring me 
more into her society. I know not if she 
was conscious of being the object of such 
devoted admiration ; but at all events, she 
showed no jealousy when my answers hap- 
pened to be superior to her own, and dur- 
ing the first week of my school novitiate, 
many were the occasions when a sweet 
smile or a kind word fell on my desolate 
heart, like the dewdrops on a thirsty Sum- 
mer flower. 

She was of a very fearless nature, 
and of a remarkably gentle disposition. 
Everyone spoke to her in a tone of respect, 
from Miss Landor down to little Jane 
Wakefield. And my enemy, Miss "Wells, 
once expressed her sentiments spontan- 
eously in the words : " Ada Somerville is a 
Christian !" 

During that week I gained the good 
opinion of several of my teachers. Made- 
moiselle frequently stormed at my awful 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 93- 

pronunciation of French, but she greatly 
commended my German, and at length she- 
informed the class that I was a rough dia- 
mond, and as for my much corrected com* 
positions, their style bore a great resem- 
blance to that of an English book she was 
reading. Curiosity prompted me to ask 
for a sight of the said book, and I was not 
a little surprised to find it was by John 
Foster. Mr. Appleby brought our essays 
back after having given them a week's 
perusal. I was much disappointed when 
he criticised all the other girl's compositons, 
and never once mentioned mine. We had 
resumed our pencils, and were expecting 
him to commence his usual system of 
questioning, when he suddenly placed his 
hand on the table and said : 

" But there is one essay which I could 
not compare with the others, because it is 
so much superior to all of them. For 
vigour of thought and chasteness of dic- 
tion, I have never seen it equalled by any 



94 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

of my pupils. I believe, Miss Landor, that 
you will know the writing." 

At the same time he handed her a few 
sheets of paper. 

" I do," she answered. " It is by Effie 
Maxwell." 

I dared not look up. I felt a glow 
suffusing my cheeks, as all eyes were turned 
on me. Miss Landor patted me on the 
shoulder as we left the class. 

" Effie," she said, " you have had great 
encouragement to try and do better." 

I now felt that I had derived substantial 
benefit from my fathers instructions. 
Indeed, in some of the English classes 
which were taught by Miss Landor herself, 
my advancement was so much beyond my 
companions, that she advised me to relin- 
quish them, and devote my whole atten- 
tion to those branches in which I* could 
have the assistance of Mademoiselle and of 
the masters. 

" You know," she said, " that besides the 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 95 

weekly lessons in music and singing, you 
are to have extra private ones from Herr 
Stein and Signor Sabrini." 

I noticed that the two Somervilles 
looked very much surprised when they 
heard this. 

Miss Wells still continued her petty 
system of persecution. She managed to 
arrange that Jessie Somerville should be 
my companion in our daily walks, although 
I am sure she must have seen that there 
was no harmony betwixt us. On Saturday 
we were allowed to choose for ourselves — 
the elder girls having the first choice, and, 
to my extreme gratification, Ada Somer- 
ville chose me. We talked of Kilronan. 
She told me she had often noticed my 
home, and that her father had mentioned 
in a letter that he was acquainted with 
mine. 

"Tour parents are remarkably kind to 
you," she said. " They are giving you 
very expensive lessons, and you should 



96 EPFIE MAXWELL. 

show that you are grateful by being very 
diligent." 

" Why," said I, " do you know what Miss 
Landor's terms are P" 

" I do not refer to that," she answered. 
" I am speaking of the music-lessons you 
are to have. Signor Sabrini charges fif- 
teen shillings for every private lesson. 
Mamma says Herr Stein's are too expensive 
for me; and yet you are to have Herr 
Bdelmann some day. Very few of the 
girls get so much as you do." 

I was not a little astonished. My father 
was never thought to be rich, and we had 
always lived very plainly. Surely my 
mother and he must have been denying 
themselves in some way for my benefit. 
That I should have advantages beyond the 
reach of the wealthy banker's daughter was 
indeed an idea sufficient to turn a stronger 
head than mine. But Effie Maxwell could 
not keep such a reflection to herself. 

" You surprise me," I said. " I am sure 



EFPIE MAXWELL. 97 

my father is not rich ; and I wonder he 
would spend so much on me." 

Ada smiled. 

"You say exactly what I think, and 
what the other girls think too. My wise* 
acre of a sister declares you must have 
some wealthy relatives — a grandfather, per* 
haps." 

" No, not a grandfather," said I, laugh* 
ing. " Uncle Eobert could afford it, if he 
liked ; but I think it must be my aunt in 
Australia." 

u I wish I had an aunt," said Ada. " I 
do envy you having so much from Herr 
♦ Stein ; and as for Sabrini, it is not for the 
sake of expense that I do not have him." 

" Why is it, then ?" I asked. 

u They say it is better for my health not 
to sing," she answered, with a grave smile- 
" You know that four of my sisters have 
died of consumption, and the doctors say 
my constitution is similar to theirs. I 
used to wear a nasty respirator at home ; 

VOL. I. H 



98 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

here I do not require one. But look at 
my arm." 

She tucked up her sleeve, and showed 
me a pale shrunken specimen of anatomy. 
She looked at me with a peculiar smile, 
and a vague fear crept over my heart. I 
sought to change the subject of conversa- 
tion. 

" Have you any other brothers or sis- 
ters ?" 

"Yes, I have Jessie, who is younger, 
and Alan, who is older than I. But Alan 
is only my half-brother, for papa has been 
twice married. Yet everybody says that I 
am more like him than like Jessie. 9 ' 

41 It must be so nice to have a brother," 
said I. 

" And the more so when that brother is 
like Alan," responded Ada. " My greatest 
trial in coming here was to part from him. . 
He is the only one in our family who is 
strong. He is studying law in Edinburgh, 
and he writes to us every Saturday/' 



EFJTE MAXWELL. 99 

We had now arrived at the gate of a 
field. Miss Landor and some of the girls 
produced their sketch-books, whilst others 
strolled about to gather daisies and prim- 
roses. 

" Please may not I sketch, Miss Landor?" 
said Ada. 

"No, dear, you had better run about 
and find some pretty flowers to paint at 
home. Do not stand beside me, but go 
wherever Effie likes to lead you." 

Ada seemed disappointed, but I under- 
stood that Miss Landor thought a little 
more exercise might do her good. So I 
led her a wild chase up and down the 
hedgerows, and we at length started for 
home laden with bunches of sweet violets. 

Our conversation had supplied me with 
plenty of subjects for reflection. How 
came it to pass that I was receiving an 
education so disproportionate to my pa- 
rents' circumstances ? The other girls 
who had private lessons were all of them 

h2 



100 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

heiresses, and when I contrasted our little 
cottage with the mansion-like homes where 
I knew some of them had been reared, I 
could not help thinking that there must be 
some secret which my parents had not 
confided to me. And yet, supposing that 
a generous benefactor supplied the means 
for their liberality, what possible motive 
could they have in concealing the circum- 
stance from me ? And then my dress had 
always been so remarkably plain. I had 
once overheard Miss Wells make a remark 
to Miss Landor about my Quaker-like sim- 
plicity of costume. 

" Why does not that girl wear a brooch 

or a coloured ribbon like other people?' 
said she. " And not one silk dress to go 
to church in, nor a feather nor a flower in 
her bonnet!" 

Miss Landor had simply replied that she 
should have me dressed in accordance with 
my parents' wishes. In her arrangement 
of my hair Ada had taken one of our 



BPPIB MAXWELL. 101 

classical plaster drawing models as an ex- 
ample, and she declared that my features 
corresponded with her original. I could 
not have believed that my circumstances 
and feelings could have undergone such a 
change as they had done in the last three 
months. The smile of a despotic king 
may confer place and power, but it cannot 
ennoble the recipient as Ada's friendship 
ennobled me. To stand well in her esti- 
mation, and in that of Miss Landor, I 
resolved to rouse my utmost energy, to 
put a guard on the door of my lips, and to 
check that inclination to lazy dreaming 
which so often interfered with my applica- 
tion to study. And in a few weeks I got 
signal encouragement. 

Signor Sabrini had at first been pre- 
vented by illness from attending at Belle- 
vue House, and after he did come, Miss 
Landor being otherwise engaged, Made- 
moiselle was deputed to take her place in 
the drawing-room during his lessons. Her 



102 BPFIB MAXWELL. 

appearance and manners were alike forbid- 
ding, so the gallant Italian never entered . 
into conversation with her, and his " bravo! 
bravo !" were the only expressions of his 
opinion in regard to my singing. But one 
day Miss Landor entered the room as my 
lesson was near its conclusion, and she re- 
mained for some time in consultation with 
him after I had left. I waited in the 
school-room until the closing of the front 
door announced that he was gone, and 
was then just crossing the hall to go to 
the dining-room, when Miss Landor called 
me into the drawing-room. 

I went in fear and trembling. I thought 
that the Signor had been making somo 
complaint of me, but I was soon unde- 
ceived by Miss Landor's complacent smile. 
She motioned me to seat myself beside 
her on the sofa, and then, laying her hand 
on my shoulder, she said : 

" Effie, ' Signor Sabrini is very much 
pleased with you. He thinks you will do 



EFP1B MAXWELL. 10$ 

» 

him infinite credit as a pupil — that is, if 
you go on as you have begun. And what 
you will be pleased to learn, I am sure, 
is that he says you have a really un- 
common voice, a voice which many a 
public singer might envy. Now, my 
dear, it will be quite your own fault if we 
do not make something of you. I am glad 
that you are so friendly with Ada Somer* 
ville, she is a girl from whom you may 
learn much." 

I was highly gratified, but as I had ob- 
served that commendations bestowed on 
schoolgirls, especially when repeated by 
themselves, are apt to provoke unkind or 
depreciatory remarks from some of their 
companions, I wisely confided my pleasant 
secret to no one but Ada. She was one 
who sincerely rejoiced in my joy, and as 
she had herself a cultivated ear, and a 
passion for music, she volunteered to prac- 
tise the accompaniment of any songs I 
might learn. 



104 BFFIE MAXWELL. 

cl Signor Sabrini must be a competent 
judge," she said, " and no talent gives so 
much immediate pleasure to others as that 
of singing. There is a higher reason, 
though, for which it is indeed to be 
coveted, for it helps us to set forth the 
praises of our Creator, and if it be pro- 
perly cultivated, this may be done in such 
a way that others may by their aesthetic 
sense be compelled to share our feelings. 
Indeed, I do not think it wrong to say that 
it may afford us a real foretaste of some oi 
the joys of Heaven. I often feel this, evei 
with a poor piano, though voice has beet 
denied me. I can make my own soul speak 
through the sounds. I shall be able to 
put it all into words some day," she said, 
with a bright smile that seemed to cast & 
shadow before it. Alas ! earth's shadows 
are very, very deep, but there are some 
lights which they cannot possibly darken. 

Miss Wells still continued her pettj 
vexations, and one day during oui 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 105 

walk I ventured to speak of them to Ada. 

" Why do you not tell Miss Landor ?" 
said she. 

" Oh, Ada, Miss Landor would be angry, 
and might think I was to blame," an- 
swered I. 

" Well, perhaps it would be better not. 
But two of the girls in our room are going 
away at Easter, and I shall ask her to let 
you have one of their beds. For my part, 
I never liked Miss Wells, and Miss Landor 
will understand her better some day. I 
am afraid my sister Jessie is not always 
very kind to you." 

" I have got accustomed to her," said I, 
laughing. 

" Oh, have you ? We always tell her at 
home that her tongue is too sharp* I used 
to be told the same when we were younger, 
and you do not know how much it costs 
me to curb it even yet. I think some of 
our Lord's precepts are very hard to obey. 
Do you know the one I find hardest ?" 



106 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

" I should think they all came easy to 

you. 

" Then you don't know me. And you 
haven't tried your own heart by their 
standard, else you wouldn't think they could 
come easy to anyone. Well, 111 tell you my 
trouble. I don't know how it was, but at 
home I used always to think myself a 
person of great importance. Perhaps 
because other people treated me as such. 
To people whom I fancied not my equals 
in station, and who were vulgar or pre- 
suming in their manners, I always shewed 
a becoming dignity. One day Alan startled 
me by saying, 'Oh, Ada, you do look so 
haughty sometimes !' , * Do I ?' said I. But 
I had read in my Bible that morning that 
' a haughty look is an abomination to the 
Lord/ Abomination is a very strong 
word, Effie, and that is what I was in the 
sight of my Creator ! I have prayed and 
striven earnestly that such a look may 



EFFIE MAXWELL, 107" 

never again be seen on my face. Do you 
think I have succeeded ?" 

"I am sure you have," said I. 

" Well, but we were speaking of Jessie.. 
She likes to see everything in order, and 
thinks she has come into the world to set 
it straight. And she never dreams that 
her words cause anybody pain. You know 
there is a delicacy about us both which we 
inherit from our mother. Mine and my 
other sisters' has been shewn in our ilk 
health. I sometimes think Jessie's has 
been developed into a certain weakness of 
mind. " 



108 



CHAPTER VII. 

fTlHB Easter holidays were a pleasant 
•*- break on the monotony of our school 
life. Most welcome were they to our 
instructors, less so might they have proved 
to an ardent student like myself, had they 
not thrown me more unrestrictedly into the 
society of Ada. 

Most of our companions departed, either 
to their own homes or on visits to the rela- 
tives of others. The Somervilles had also 
been invited somewhere ; but Miss Landor 
preferred that they should remain under 
her sister's charge, she being terrified lest 
Ada's health should suffer from some un- 
wonted dissipation. Our Miss Landor, as 



BFPIB MAXWELL. 10^ 

we called the younger sister, went to 
London for a few days, so that the Somer- 
villes, Jane Wakefield, and I were the sole 
possessors of the school-room. We read, 
walked, drew, and practised till dinner 
time ; then in the afternoon Ada and I sat 
working and talking by the hearth, whilst 
Jane and Jessie looked after each other's 
affairs upstairs. Ada read me her brother 
Alan's letters. He confided to her all the 
thoughts and aspirations of his heart, and 
it was a great proof of her confidence in 
me that she drew aside the curtain and let 
me have a peep into what was to her so 
sacred. It seemed to me that Alan had 
had no small influence in forming her 
character, and that his was being shaped 
by hers in return. It was as if she had 
realised his ideal of all that was highest in 
woman, and that the process was being 
reversed unconsciously to them both. I 
could fancy what Alan was. Not in 
feature, certainly, for Ada had told me that 



110 EFFIJE MAXWELL. 

he was unlike her ; but in the spirituality 
"which must shine out of his eyes, as it 
assuredly did out of Ada's. The reader 
will suspect, I fear, that Ada was not a be- 
ing of such warm flesh and blood as was 
Effie Maxwell. No, she was my lily, and 
when I told her so, she laughed, and said : 

" How very strange ! Alan calls me 
Lily." 

It was then that I penetrated into the 
secrets of her inner life. She had become 
so familiar with the mystery of Death that 
to her it seemed no mystery at all; and 
she regarded the time of its occurrence as 
of no importance whatever. Of her deceased 
sisters she always spoke with the greatest 
affection; but in the tone in which one 
speaks of people with whom one is still 
associating. The other world she truly 
regarded as her home, and this life but as 
a school in which she was being prepared 
for it. She displayed no sentiment of 
grief in speaking of her sisters, indeed I 



EFFIB MAXWELL. Ill 

think she regarded their early removal with 
envy. Such trustful calmness is, I believe, 
frequently witnessed during the last days 
of good men. I have never seen it so 
well exemplified, and that, too, during the 
greater part of a life-time. 

It may well be imagined that with such 
a companion my own ideas and feelings 
underwent considerable changes. The 
trials of my childhood had truly been 
slight things to bear compared with what . 
Ada's sisters had suffered. And I doubt 
if I would have exchanged my own exuber- 
ance of health for her feeble body, even if 
with it I could have received the warmth 
of love which was bestowed on her by her 
parents and her brother. It seems a 
mystery to me how anyone can with pa- 
tience endure a difficulty of breathing in 
youth. But respect for a virtue we cannot 
ourselves attain is one of the most valuable 
of acquirements. 

How can I come down from such a 



112 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

theme to the record of tittle-tattle ? But 
small things have a great influence on our 
lives, just as a log of wood, damming up a 
mountain streamlet, may change the course 
of a mighty river. Ada had persuaded 
Jessie to give up her bed to me, and share 
another one with Jane Wakefield — a plan 
which completely fell in with the two girls' 
own wishes. One night, after Ada was 
asleep, and I was supposed to be so, I over- 
heard the following whispered conversa- 
tion: 

" Jessie, who do you think is the pretti- 
est girl in the school ?" 

"Pretty! There's none of us pretty; 
we're the plainest-looking lot that ever was 
brought together. I'm sure I don't know 
what those gentlemen stared at us for 
when we were walking through the gardens 
of Pittville Spa. No doubt they made the 
same remark to their friends about Miss 
Landor's pupils." 

u Oh ! Jessie, surely you don't think that 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 113 

there's not one or two good faces among 
us?" 

" Well, I don't know, unless it be our 
Ada. But what do you think about Effie 
Maxwell ?" 

" Effie ? Well, if there's one girl can 
boast less of her looks than another, I'm 
sure it's Effie." 

(This was pleasant for me to hear.) 

" Nay, Janie," replied Jessie — " nay, 
Janie. I won't say that you can boast 
much of your eyes. You only look at 
Effie's clothes. Dress her in a grey silk 
like Miss Landor's, and comb down her 
hair like yours, and you'll see she'll beat 
everybody. I've thought her perfectly 
lovely myself, when I've seen her standing 
in her white dressing-jacket. My ! Janie, 
you've no taste at all !" 

The matter under discussion was not 
one of much importance to me; I had 
never bestowed a thought upon my looks 
since the day when Jessie Somerville first 

VOL. i. i 



114 KFFIB MAXWELL. 

took notice of me. I was rather amused, 
however, to find that years had not altered 
her opinion about my physiognomy. 

Next day, in the afternoon, our two 
friends joined in our fireside chat. They 
made it very entertaining, for their spirits 
were buoyant, and they avoided the serious 
subjects which Ada and I so often dis- 
cussed. Miss Landor sometimes gave us 
a newspaper, and we had read in it of 
some dreadful poisoning cases. I am 
afraid that Jessie and Janie had laid in a 
stock of horrible stories to relate to their 
companions. Janie gave us a vivid de- 
scription of Madame Tussaud's Chamber 
of Horrors, which her papa had taken her 
to see in London, and, from Mrs. Manning 
and the guillotine, we at length came to 
speak of William Palmer. 

" The wretch P said Jessie. " I'm sure 
I can't tell you how I loathe that man. 
There seems something so mean and 
sneaking in giving poison to people. Now, 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 115 

if you're going to murder some one, a stab 
with a dagger is a brave and noble * 

" Jessie !" said Ada. 

"Oh ! Ada, you know I only meant in 
comparison ; you needn't put on such a 
face as that. Now there was Christina 
Robinson." 

"Who was Christina Robinson ?" asked 
I. 

' ' Do you mean to say you don't know* ? 
"Why, I thought everybody had heard of 
her. Well, she was a young lady in Man- 
chester, about seventeen years old, and she 
was engaged to be married to a Mr. Reeves 
— a gentleman who was thought a good 
match, — and she was taken up because 
she had poisoned a girl whom she sup- 
posed to be her rival in his affections. 
There wasn't the slightest doubt she had 
done it ; but the Court acquitted her be- 
cause she was very beautiful, and they 
didn't like to hang a young lady." 

" That was not exactly the reason," said 

i2 



116 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

Ada. " It was simply because they could 
not prove it. The public never doubted 
that she was guilty. She had been very 
badly brought up — I mean, she had led a 
gay, fashionable life — was what you would 
call fast. Many pitied her, though all 
abhorred her crime." 

" Pitied her !" said Jessie. " Tm sure I 
didn't. The brazen impudence she showed 
when she sat in the court of justice, and the 
way she tried to flirt with the barristers ! 
I daresay she thought it was as good as 
being the belle of a ball/' 

" What became of her ?" 

"I'm sure I don't know. They say 
some geese of men were so fascinated by 
her beauty that she got lots of offers when 
the trial was over. I've heard that she's 
married to a Welsh clergyman, but I don't 
know if 'tis true." 

" Perhaps she'll poison him." 

"I shouldn't like to be in his shoes. 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 117 

But serve him right, to go and marry such 
a woman !" 

"Jessie," said Ada, "how can you possi- 
bly remember about Christina Robinson ? 
It happened twelve years ago, when you 
were such a little mite." 

" And do you think I don't listen when 
people talk? I've heard so much about 
it that it almost seems as if I had seen it 
myself." 

11 Was she rich ?" 

"Oh, yes — her parents were. They 
were among the most prosperous people in 
Manchester, but they'll not show their 
faces there again. Just think if you or I 
were to do such a thing !" 

" It would be much worse in us," said 
Ada, cl considering how carefully we have 
been brought up. But murder must be a 
very, very fearful thing. Did you ever 
read Hood's poem on ' Eug&ne Aram ?* " 

" No, I have not." 

Ada repeated : 



118 OTFIE MAXWELL. 

" He told how murderers walk the earth 

Beneath the corse of Cain, 
With crimson spots before their eyes, 

And flames about their brain, 
For guilt has left upon their souls 

Its everlasting stain." 

"What a good memory you have!" 
said I. 

u It is because the poem made such a 
strong impression on my mind. Often in 
the dead of night have I imagined myself 
dragging some mangled body through the 
woods, and vainly trying to cover it over 
with leaves. It is not good to let one's 
mind dwell on such things. I wish you 
would talk of something pleasanter. I'd 
rather see a ghost than fancy myself 
Eugene Aram again. 

"Well," said Jessie, "is it more agree- 
able for you to think how stupid some of 
these English girls are ? I'll tell you what 
they did one day last week in the second 
English composition class. Don't laugh, 
Janie, I forgot you were in it." 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 119 

" Never mind," said Janie — " go on." 

" Their lessons were about synonyms, 
and when they came to say it, Miss Landor 
said, * Now, girls, are you quite sure you 
know this ? Because, if you do not know 
it, I would prefer hearing you another day. 
I am so tired of half -prepared lessons.' You 
see, I was busy at my drawing, so I could 
quite well listen." 

" We're sure we know the first four," 
they answered. 

"Well, let me see. The first is 'lam- 
poon ' and ' satire.' Can you tell me the 
difference between these two words ?" 

" Oh, yes, Miss Landor." 

" Well, what is it ? But first, what is 
the meaning of ' lampoon ?' 

"A kind of stone," said Ellen Morris. 

* 

Miss Landor shook her head. 
11 A ghost," said Mary Elliot. 
" No, not a ghost." 
" A fish," said Lucy Jones. 
" No, nor a fish neither." 



120 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

u A man," said Janie Wakefield; 

Miss Landor looked somewhat puzzled. 

"I understand why Ellen thought it was a 
stone, she said, she was thinking of a 
sapphire. And the one who thought it 
was a ghost was thinking of satyr. You, 
Lucy, when you said a fish, had some dim 
recollections that harpoons are used for 
catching whales, and harpoon sounds like 
lampoon. Was it not so ?" 

" Yes/' responded Lucy. 

11 But," continued Miss Landor, how any- 
one could think it was a man, I cannot 
possibly imagine." 

" Please, Miss Landor," said Janie, " I 
thought it was the man who lights the 
lamps at night." 

We all laughed heartily at Jessie's re- 
cital. Jane joined in our mirth, but in- 
sinuated that it was not their fault if the 
lesson was too difficult for them, and that 
they were to have simpler ones in future. 

The servant entered at this moment, 



BFPIE MAXWELL. 121 

bearing a tray with a foreign-looking 
letter. It was for me, and it bore the 
Australian post-mark. As Ada had so 
often shown me her brother's letters, I 
took this opportunity to return her confi- 
dence. The writing taxed our united 
skill to decipher, being both close and in- 
distinct. We were well repaid for our 
trouble, however, as besides graphic de- 
scriptions of Australian squatter life, it 
contained philosophic reflections on life 
and its duties, of a nature rarely communi- 
cated to girls of fourteen. The reader 

must have already guessed that it was 

» 

written by Aunt Helen. She requested 
me to give her all the particulars 1 could 
about my studies and my associates — in 
fact, to furnish her with a MS. newspaper, 
which would prove highly instructive to 
the dwellers at the Antipodes. Details of 
a life passed in another hemisphere have 
always an interest of their own ; and could 
we see what one of our friends is doing at 



122 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

the other end of the world, the novels of 
Dickens himself would lose half their spell 
to charm us. Janie and Jessie betook 
themselves to the practice of quadrilles on 
the drawing-room piano, and left us to 
pursue our task alone. 

" This aunt of yours must have suffered 
greatly," said Ada. " You say she has lost 
all her children. But she has her husband 
left, and is not he better to her than seven 
sons ?" 

" You seem to me to have a high idea of 
marriage," said L 

" A good husband or wife is the comple- 
ment of our earthly existence," she an- 
swered. " It seems to me that men and 
. women, having been truly created for each 
other, are scarcely perfect beings separate. 
I ought not to talk in that way, for I shall 
never marry ; and it will be a trial to me 
when Alan does. I tell him to let his 
heart be his only counsellor in that matter, 
but to be sure only to associate with the 



EFME MAXWELL. 128 

truly virtuous, and then he will not go far 
wrong. One ought to be the more careful 
in forming an attachment, because I be- 
lieve that affection of all kinds will be 
perpetuated in eternity. But what you 
interrupted me in saying was, that I think 
your aunt must have had some dreadful 
trial besides the loss of her children. I 
can read in her utterances the expression 
of a disappointed life, the cry of a heart 
whose achings are not stilled by the conso- 
lations which religion affords to the be- 
reaved. She seems to go mourning in the 
bitterness of her soul, and to derive a 
little pleasure from the thought that her 
niece's life maybe happier than her own." 

" I wonder if it is she who pays for my 
education ?" said I. 

" Very likely. If so, perhaps she means 
to make you her heiress. But how wrong 
I am to speak of that. Eiches are a very 
poor thing to expect happiness from." 

" There is some mystery about my edu* 



124 BFFD5 MAXWELL. 

-cation," said I. " And what perplexes me 
most is, why my parents do not tell me 
•of it." 

" No doubt, if it be as we suspect, you 
will know some day. Here am I, who 
hate gossiping, actually puzzling my brains 
^about other people's concerns." 

" Now, Ada, what do you call gossip ? — 
the interchange of thoughts between friends 
like ourselves ? 9 

" Gossip is a difficult word both to define 
and to apply. It seems to me that we are 
mutually dependent beings, and that there- 
fore to take no interest in each other's 
:aifairs would be wrong. We cannot help 
doing so, it is a law of our nature. And 
for two people to avoid speaking about 
the joys and sorrows of some common 
friend would, in many cases, be monstrous, 
and show coldness of heart. But what I 
•call idle gossip is the betrayal of confix 
dences, the descanting on trivialities, the 
manufacturing of stories, or the misrepre- 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 125* 

sentation of facts known to the narrator, 
but communicated to hirii only in the- 
secresy of friendship ; — all which sins our 
sex, and I suspect the other sex, very fre- 
quently commit. And we should avoid 
talking on personal affairs with strangers, 
all the more that it is only a very super- 
ficial view we can have of each other's 
character or life. How very different is 
the view which a solicitor privately take* 
of the position or actions of certain indi- 
viduals from that which is accepted by the 
world ! He knows the skeleton in every 
household, the unworthy motive that 
prompted the apparently generous deed, 
the cloud that cast its shadow over the 
prospects of the wedded pair, even beforo 

their vows were interchanged, and 

But I am not a lawyer, so I cannot fill up 
the catalogue." 

" Then you think we ought to take an 
interest in each other's affairs ?" 

" Certainly I do. The proper study of 



126 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

mankind is man, and it is a study even 
more interesting tban tbat of natural 
science. It alone lends a charm to the 
dry details of philosophy, of philology, and 
•of history. By what branch of art is the 
soul more powerfully stirred than by the 
drama ? And though it cannot come up 
to real history, does not the novel rivet 
our attention by making up in some de- 
gree for our ignorance ? We all wear a 
mask on our faces, Effie, and as our ex- 
perience of life shall increase, we shall 
press the mask more closely than ever. I 
am conscious of an intellectual hunger in 
wishing to know the details of other 
people's lives. I shall know them some 
day, for do you know I have the fancy 
that in another world, when the secrets 
of many hearts shall be revealed, and the 
books shall be opened, we also may be 
permitted to read what is written there. 
We shall have much enjoyment and in- 
struction in,. tracing the ways of Provi- 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 127 

dence with others as well as ourselves. 
Every life is full of incident ; it is an un- 
written epic poem. No, not unwritten. 
There is a register of all its events, and 
that register is kept by the finger of 
Omniscience. God has given us a few true 
glimpses of men's lives in the Old Testa- 
ment ; were he to present to our eyes simi- 
lar pictures of our own, would we not be 
very much startled ? There is not such a 
thing in the world as a common-place 
person ; and some very uninteresting-look- 
ing faces are the mask to secrets which 
might have inspired the pen of a Keats or 
a Goethe." 

" I hope you don't think we are so ro- 
mantic as Isabella or Dorothea," said I, 
laughing. 

How deeply, ere a few years had elapsed, 
did I feel the truth of Ada's remarks ! 



128 



CHAPTER VIII. 

fTlHE session passed away both busily 
•■- and happily; the time approached for 
our Summer holidays, and the Somervilles 
got into a little difficulty as to who should 
accompany them home. 

"You see, it is such a long way for 
mamma/' said Ada, " and papa has sprain- 
ed his foot when playing at croquet. To 
be sure, they might send a servant, but 
Thomas is to leave next term, and I don't 
see that he would do much good. Then 
my brother is too busy at the university. 
I wish papa did not object so much to our 
travelling alone. I am sure we could 
manage perfectly well ourselves. It is not 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 129 

as if we had not gone the same road once 
before." 

" I think I can manage it for you," said 
Miss Landor. " Effie's uncle, Mr. Robert 
Maxwell, has been spending a few weeks 
at Malvern, trying the water cure. He 
has arranged his journey homewards so as 
to suit Effie. How would it do if you were 
all to travel together ?" 

" Oh, it would do beautifully !" said Ada. 
" Thank you, Miss Landor, we need not 
trouble ourselves any more. I will write 
to mamma by the next post, and I am sure 
she will approve of your plan." 

The morning of our departure arrived ; 
our boxes were mounted on the same cab, 
and together we drove to the station. 

My uncle was waiting for us. His com- 
plexion was more florid, and his blue eyes 
brighter than usual — in fact, he looked 
the very picture of bonhomie and robust 
health, which latter possession he no doubt 
owed to the scientific treatment of Dr. 

VOL. I. K 



130 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

Marsden. I expected every moment that 
his exuberant spirits would find an outlet 
by throwing his cap into the air, after the 
fashion of the water-cure caricatures. I 
don't know how it was, but I thought him 
decidedly common-looking as he greeted 
me with a slap on the shoulder and a kiss. 
I wondered how I had never perceived 
this before. We got a carriage to our- 
selves, and he soon began to question us 
about our school-life. 

"Well, young ladies, I suppose you're 
glad to be out of the clutches of your 
duenna. Looks after you sharp, don't 
she ?" 

Ada drew herself up. " Miss Landor is 
a lady, sir !" 

" Ah, so stuck-up, these English ! Are 
there plenty of fine beaux drinking at the 
waters? Any of the masters married ?" 
continued my uncle, winking, and giving 
Jessie a nudge with his elbow. 

I saw that Ada was intensely disgusted. 



BPP1B MAXWELL. 131 

How I wished that Uncle Robert had 
stayed at home, or that the floor of the 
carriage would drop out, and deposit me 
on the railroad ! Finding that neither of 
the Somervilles was willing to make a 
confidant of him, he got out at the next 
station, and entered another carriage. 
There he seemed to find congenial society 
in the shape of a widow lady, for he took 
advantage of the next stoppage to return 
and recount to us her pathetic history. 
He changed between our carriage and hers 
at every station, and Jessie wondered that 
he did not make her an offer before the 
end of the journey. But I thought Ada's 
manner somewhat less affectionate to me 
than it was wont to be. 

The train whirled us rapidly through 
the orchards of the Midland counties, where 
thousands of trees were bending under 
their load of half-ripened fruit, and past 
the populous hives of industry at Worces- 
ter, Birmingham, and Stafford. 

k2 



132 EFFIfi MAXWELL. 

After leaving Carlisle, our conversation 
was interrupted by Uncle Robert making 
his appearance, and suggesting that, as we 
should shortly reach Gretna, we had better 
let him ask two fine young men in the 
next carriage to get out there with us, and 
surprise our parents by all three returning 
home married. 

" They can draw lots for Effie and you," 
he said to Jessie, " but I must claim Miss 
Somerville as my recompense for having 
taken care of you." 

Miss Somerville respectfully declined 
the proposal, and Jessie recommended him 
to try his powers of persuasion on the 
widow lady. 

We reached Kilronan about nine in the 
evening. Mrs. Somerville was waiting at 
the station to receive her daughters. After 
bidding me farewell, and making a formal 
bow to Uncle Robert, they drove off in 
their carriage, leaving a footman to attend 
to the luggage. Uncle Robert saw our 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 133 

boxes transferred to a porter s barrow, 
and we wended our way on foot to Ruby 
Cottage, a distance of nearly a mile. The 
foot-paths had been softened with showers 
a few hours previously, and were very dis- 
agreeable to walk on. I was thankful 
when I at length saw the light streaming 
through our window-shutters, and opened 
the little gate that led off the highway in- 
to our front garden. 

My father gave us a cordial greeting ; 
my mother examined me from head to 
foot, found fault with my coiffure, and or- 
dered me to return to the old style when 
at home. Alas ! I fancied I had re- 
turned to the old constraint, and was 
agreeably disappointed when my mother 
left me very much to my own devices, 
only renewing her prohibition against prac- 
tising music. 

Bridget's place was supplied by a stran- 
ger. My mother had dismissed her when 
I went to school, thinking that one ser- 



134 BFFIB MAXWELL. 

vant might do the work when there was 
one less in the family. Bridget had 
consoled herself for her dismissal by marry- 
ing John Thompson. 

During the next few days I could not 
help noticing that my parents lived very 
plainly ; and this observation did not 
lessen my wonder at their liberality to- 
wards me. I thought it my duty to refer 
to the subject by Saying to my mother 
when we were alone, 

" Mamma, I am sure it is very kind of 
you and papa to give me such expensive 
lessons." 

My mother turned sharply round. 

" What business have you with how we 
choose to spend our money?" she said. 
" Never let me hear you speak of what 
doesn't concern you, or you'll hear some- 
thing you won't like, I can tell you." 

I never dared to mention the subject 
again ; but, a few days afterwards, my 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 135 

curiosity was excited afresh, during a visit 
I paid to Betty Doak. 

It was in the afternoon, yet I found the 
door of the room open, and caught a 
glimpse of her, attired in a lilac print 
wrapper, and a black net cap surmounting 
her grey hair. In her hand she held the 
wooden stick yclept a "spurtle," with 
which she was stirring up the contents of 
the frothing # saucepan on her little fire. 
She gave an exclamation of pleased sur- 
prise on seeing me, pulled her saucepan 
slightly towards the edge, and begged me 
to be seated. 

11 1 fear you are busy, Betty," said I, 
smelling soap-suds. " Is it not your wash- 
ing-day ?" 

" Oh no, Miss Phemie ; I was just doin* 
a turn for a neighbour that's silly, an' has 
ower muckle wark." 

I knew that " silly " was the Scotch 
term for delicate, and therefore refrained 



136 EFFIK MAXWELL. 

from making inquiries as to her neigh- 
bour's state of mind. 

u An' sae ye're hame frae Englan'. Did 
ye come that lang road yer lane ?" 

"No," I answered, "Uncle Robert 
travelled with me, and so did the Miss 
Somervilles." 

" The Miss Somervilles ! ay, that's the 
Priory folk ; I heard they were at the same 
school as ye. But it wasna Mr. Robert 
Maxwell, yer faither's brither, that was wi* 
them an' ye in the same carriage ?" 

" Yes, Betty ; why not ?" said I. 

"Did ye ever hear tell the like ? " ex- 
claimed the old woman, laying down her 
spurtle. And dropping into her great arm- 
chair, she fixed on me a pair of round, 
inquiring eyes. 

" Why, Betty, what surprises you ?" said 
I. " Do you know the Somervilles ?" 

" Div I ken the Somervilles ? Ay, Miss 
Phemie, 'tis I that suld ken them, for 
mony a day hae I been i' their hoose, baith 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 137 

when the first Mrs. Somerville — that's Mr. 
Alan's mother, Miss Proudfoot that was — 
was there, an' since the second ane cam' 
hame ; just what a' the warld might hae ex- 
peckit, the twa bein' cousins an' sworn 
frien's. An' Mrs. Somerville that's now, she 
was a Miss Proudfoot too. Braw fine 
leddies they baith o' them are, her that's 
gane an' her that's leevin'. Mony's the 
half-croon they've gi'en me when I've askit 
it, an' e'en the last time " 

"But, Betty," interrupted I, knowing 
how ready she was to fly off at a tangent 
from the straight line of her discourse, 
" why should the daughters not travel in 
the same carriage with Uncle Robert ?" 

" Hech, but it's an auld story, an' ane 
ye'll maybe no hae heard tell o'. It 
happened afore ye were born ; it was on a 
cauld day when the hoar-frost was darken- 
in' a' the window glass, just aboot the turn 
o' the year, when I first cam' to this wee 
bit hoose, that I had occasion to go to the 



138 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

Priory to seek a few grapes for Miss 
Russell, who was doun wi' the scarlet fever. 
An when I was crossin' the lawn, the 
gardener he 6ays to me, ' Our mistress is 
very unweel herselV ' Ay, indeed/ says I, 
4 what's the maitter ?' ' Maitter eneuch/ 
says he, 4 the doctor's been here these twa 
days, an' Miss Proudfoot o' Nethercliffe 
nursin' her, an' hasna been in her ain bed 
sin yestreen.' So bein' there, ye see, I 
couldna just come awa without seein f 
Bell, her maid, that was aye a great frien' 
o' mine ; she married John Wilkins, the 
baker ; 'tis her eldest laddie that comes to 
ye wi' the rolls. An, Bell, she says, l Mrs. 
Somerville wad like to see ye, Betty/ An* 
when I went into the room, oh, surse the 
day ! here was the sweet lady a-lyin' in her 
bed, wi' the crimson curtains an' the fine 
crotchet counterpane, an' her face for a' 
the warl' the colour o' cream o' tartar. An* 
she reached me out her han', sae blue an* 
thin like, an' she said, ' Betty, ye'U be kind 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 139 

to my little boy !' I saw frae the way she 
said it that she wasna lang for here. 
Maister Alan, he was a wee fellow then,, 
wi' a curly black pow an' a Rob Roy frock, 
an' he cam toddlin' up an' cried to be lifted 
on to his mamma's bed. An' then, ' Jessie/ 
says she — Jessie was Miss Proudfoot, ye 
ken — ' will ye tak' Betty for a walk as far's 
the lodge ?' Eh ! but Miss Proudfoot was 
greetin' sairly when she said that. But no 
loud, ye ken, for fear o' disturbin' Mrs. 
Somerville. So she and I slippit oot the- 
gither ; an' while we were walkin' doon the 
avenue, says she, * Betty, div ye no think 
the folk suld think shame o' theirsel's for 
tormentin' my uncle the way they've dune ? 
It's clean unsettled my cousin's mind, that 
it has. It's maybe silly o' her to tak' it 
sae to heart, but then a wee thing upsets us 
when we're sae weak." 

" i I've no heard tell o' ony thing,' says I, 
' what maun it be ?' 

" ' Have ye no heard o' Mr. Maxwell an'" 



140 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

his claim against my uncle Proudfoot?' 
says she. 

" ' No, that I haena.' Weel, Miss Phemie, 
she began an' tellt me o' a maitter that 
had sair distressit Mrs. Somerville. It 
seems that auld Mr. Proudfoot, the grand- 
father o' baith thae ladies, didna get the 
estates frae his ain faither, but because 
some cousin twice removit was deid with- 
out weans. An' a hantle siller he got wi' 
them too. But there was his grandfather 
again, who had a younger brother, aulder 
than the ane the Proudf oots are descendit 
frae, an' this younger brother had made 
what they ca' a Miss Allins." 

"A what?" said I. 

" A Miss Allins, or Miss Alice, 'gin ye 
understaun' that better." 

" What is a Miss Alice ?" 

" I dinna ken, for I hae nae skeel o' the 
Latin, excep' it be a f ause marriage, though 
hoo' a marriage can be fause, and yet be a 
marriage ava, I canna weel see. Or maybe 



EPPIE MAXWELL. 141 

it's a marriage withoot a minister. What- 
ever it be, ony way there was a dochter 
ca'd Mary, an' she was a forbear o' yer ain r 
an' it was through her that Mr. Maxwell 
claimit sae muckle gear frae the Proud- 
foots. But oh! wasna it a negleckfu' 
thing for folk to be married in that way, 
an' no afore the face o' the haill warl' ! An r 
even after the wean was born, 'gin they 
had gotten a minister to say a bit word, 
there wad hae been proof that they were 
man and wife. For it wad hae been in 
the parish register, ye ken, an' then the 
estates wad ne'er hae come to the Proud- 
foots." 

" And did Uncle Robert get anything ?" 
said I. 

" Na, Miss Phemie, I'm feared he didna 
— at least, no frae the lawyers. But the 
haill toun talkit aboot it as ii the warl' wad 
come to an en' 'gin the Proudfoots suld 
leave Nethercliffe. An' auld Mr. Proud- 
foot was worrit for mony a day. Folks 



142 EFPIE MAXWELL. 

say lie gied lots o' siller to yer f aither to 
keep it quate. An' Mrs. Somerville, I 
•canna tell if she thocht muckle o' it or no, 
for when I gaed neist mornin' to speir they 
tellt me she was deid." 

" Was there a lawsuit ?" I asked. 

"'Deed, Miss Phemie, I canna tell ye. 
Te maun e'en speir at yer faither. w 



143 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE reader will not be surprised to learn 
that for some days I expected to find 
in Betty's disclosures the key which would 

unlock for me some entrance to the hidden 

» 

mystery connected with my education. I 
took her advice in endeavouring to become 
possessed of it in a legitimate manner. 

My father was in the habit of shutting 
his office early on Saturday afternoons, 
and, when the weather permitted, taking a 
long walk through one of those romantic 
glens through which the young tributaries 
of the Annan cut their turfy way towards 
that gleaming river. 



144 EPFIB MAXWELL. 

It had ever been one of my greatest 
pleasures to accompany him on such 
rambles. He was neither a botanist nor 
an ornithologist, but he understood some- 
thing of geology, and still more of the 
histories connected with the cottages and 
f armsteadings from whose red chimney-pots 
the blue peat smoke curled upwards to- 
wards the fleecy clouds. Often in bygone 
days had he sat on some grassy bank, 
guardian of my shoes and stockings, while, 
with petticoats tucked round my knees, I 
splashed into the depths of some mountain 
streamlet, in quest of the rich ripe clusters 
of bramble-berries, or the straggling blooms 
of honeysuckle that were inaccessible from 
above; or stretched out a helping hand 
when I endeavoured to cross beneath a 
bridge, on the slender trunk of a fir-tree. 
But on growing older I had forsaken these 
childish ways, and the only clusters gather- 
ed in his company were those he had al- 
ready culled from books, the only help I 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 145 

asked was such as would unlock for me the 
gate of some of Nature's mysteries. 

It was during one of these walks that 
the following conversation occurred : 

" Papa, was there ever a quarrel between 
the Somervilles and Uncle Robert ?" 

My father started, threw up his head a& 
he was in the habit of doing when he heard 
anything unpleasant, and asked, 

" Who told you there ever was such a 
thing ?" 

" Old Betty was saying something about 
it." 

" Betty ! Was she indeed ! She talks 
more than she knows, perhaps." 

" But there is never smoke without fire, 
papa, so she must have had some reason for 
saying it." 

" You cunning little puss ! Well, would 
you like to know ? Did you ever hear of 
such a thing as too much curiosity ? You 
should not let it get the better of you." 

"Papa, if nobody was ever curious, 

VOL. I. L 



146 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

nobody would ever learn anything. " 
" Well, perhaps it may be good, within 
bounds." 

u Won t you tell me, papa ?" 
" Yes, if you wish it. It was the stupid- 
est thing your uncle ever did. He found 
,out that we were related to the Proudfoots 
through an illegitimate daughter of one of 
them who lived some two hundred years ago. 
And instead of hunting up documents and 
collecting evidence to prove that his claim 
was a good one, and then getting me or 
some other lawyer to help him, what does 
he do but go and talk to everybody about 
how he was going to humble the greatest 
family in the county ; and he never could 
leave it off till it was spoken about by the 
newspapers, and Mr. Proudfoot got Rose 
to write and challenge him to bring proofs. 
Now what proofs could be brought about 
a secret marriage two hundred years ago ? 
Everybody was dead who could have heard 
John Proudfoot speak of Mary Sinclair as 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 147 

his wife, and on the tombstone of her 
daughter Mary in the churchyard nothing 
was said except that she was the wife of 
Hobert Maxwell, my great-grandfather. It 
was thought that a notice of this Mrs. 
Maxwell's baptism might be found in the 
parish register. Had she been described 
in the said register as * daughter of John 
Proudfoot, and of Mary his wife/ it would 
have been attestation enough, according to 
the law of Scotland ; for our courts hold 
that a marriage exists if the husband has 
spoken of the lady as his wife before 
witnesses, even when there has been ho 
ceremony. And such a declaration would 
make a child legitimate even when made 
after its birth. But when we searched the 
books in the parish church it was found 
i]that several pages were missing, and 
among them the one supposed to contain 
the notice of Mary's baptism. We offered 
a reward for its discovery, but without 
avail. If we could have proved so much 

l2 



148 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

and it had gone to court, it would have 
had a serious effect on the Proudfoots." 

" Would Uncle Robert have got Nether- 
cliffe r asked I. 

"No, not Nethercliffe, for that is en- 
tailed in the male line. But he would 
certainly have been entitled to a great deal 
of money in right of his great grandmo- 
ther, and his claim would have swallowed 
up both the Mrs. Somervilles' dowries." 

"No wonder Mr. Proudfoot was an- 
noyed," said I. 

"And Mr. Somerville no less. But 
what made it so disagreeable for me was 
that the agitation was just beginning which 
led to our leaving the old church, and that 
I had to meet Somerville in the Deacons 9 
Court after the new one was formed* 
However, he came forward quite frankly 
on seeing me and said, 

" f I hope, we shall forget old quarrels 
here, Mr. Maxwell. Your brother has been 



BFFIE MAXWELL- 14& 

disappointed, and we had better not think 
more of it/ 

14 It was a ridiculous affair from begin- 
ning to end, and your uncle was called 
4 Proudf oot Maxwell ' for many a day." 

We now turned into the highway, and 
my father walked more quickly, as if he 
considered the conversation finished. It 
was not without some trepidation that I 
came closer to his side, and whispered, in 
my softest tones, 

14 Papa, is it true what Betty says, that 
Mr. Proudfoot gave you and Uncle Robert 
a great deal of money to keep it all 
secret ?" 

u Paid us to keep it secret ! How ab- 
surd ! By way of hush-money, I suppose ? 
I wonder what figure they put it at. No, 
such a thing was not even hinted at, nor 
was there the slightest necessity for it. 
Believe me, Effie, your uncle and Betty 
are the two greatest gossips in the town, 



150 EFFJE MAXWELL. 

Betty is a good woman, and she only re- 
peats what she hears. But I am glad you 
mentioned it, for it gives us the oppor- 
tunity to contradict it. As for your uncle, 
you may as well advertise a secret in the 
newspapers as tell it to him. And then 
you dare not ask his advice about anything, 
for he gets angry if you don't take it/' 

"I wonder, then," said I, "how Mrs. 
Somerville allowed her daughters to travel 
with him." 

" Oh ! 'tis such an old story ! Depend 
upon it, they have no grudge against us 
for that. They would not think it worth 
mentioning to the girls. And travelling in 
a railway-carriage together does not entail 
a great acquaintance." 

A few days after this conversation, Ada 
Somerville called for me. She brought a 
message from her mother, requesting me 
to spend a day at their house. As my 
mother was out at the time I could give no 
definite answer. 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 151 

My mother was very indignant when 
she heard of it. 

11 Effie," said she, " how dare you make 
friends with the Miss Somervilles ? Don't 
you know everybody says they're the 
proudest family in Kilronan. I think Miss 
Somerville very impudent to come here, 
when Mrs. Somerville has not called for me 
first. You'll sit down and write a note: 

" ' Miss Buphemia Maxwell presents com- 
pliments to Miss Somerville, and regrets 
that she cannot avail herself of Miss Somer- 
ville's polite invitation. 1 

" But that is not the way I should like 
to write to Ada," remonstrated I. 

"Like! What business have you to 
like, I should wish to know ? Go and do 
as I tell you. If you don't, I'll write and 
tell them what I think of them. Shew me 
the note before you send it." 

Not knowing what my mother's threat 
portended, I was obliged to comply, though 
I endeavoured to soften some of the more 



»M 



152 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

formal expressions. I never before felt 
such a distaste for pen and paper. By my 
own act I was about to destroy the sincerest 
friendship I had ever formed, the friend- 
ship that had made of me a true woman. 
Oh ! was it not bitter ? I sat, pen in hand, 
for many a long hour, thinking of how I 
might convey to Ada some hint that this 
was not my own doing. But my mother 

was to see the letter, and I knew from 

. 

experience that there was no hope of her 
relenting. At length the fatal missive was 
completed, inspected, and confided to the 
care of Bridget's successor. 

My next great trial was going to church. 
I trembled to see the Somervilles at every 
turn of the road, for I felt that to make a 
formal bow to one I loved so much would 
cause me unutterable anguish. I dared 
not look towards their pew, though I often 
thought their eyes were upon me. The 
mask of which Ada had spoken I was 
wearing too surely. 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 153 

But everything has an end, and I re- 
turned to school in August. For a few 
days Ada and Jessie scarcely spoke to me. 
With such depth of feeling in my heart, I 
was indeed grieved at their coldness. At 
length I could stand it no longer, but 
slipped up to Ada and stammered out : 

" I was so sorry that I could not accept 
your mamma's invitation. I was very 
much disappointed, but my mother v 

"Wouldn't let you," said Ada, looking 
up from her drawing. u Well, 1 thought 
it rather strange in you to write me such 
a note, and never once to call on us. But 
what objection had she to your coming ?" 

" She thought Mrs. Somerville ought to 
have called on her first." 

" Oh, that's it, is it ? Well, let us kiss 
and be friends. There are some things in 
this world we cannot help, can we ?" 

I threw my arms round her neck and 
sobbed. Our first misunderstanding had 
only served to cement our friendship. 



154 



CHAPTER X. 



r REMAINED for four years at 
■*- Landor s school Ada and Jessie were 
removed two years before I was. I carried 
on a correspondence with the former, but 
I had no longer any opportunity of per- 
sonal intercourse with her. During the 
holidays I did not even see her at church, 
for she and Jessie were trying to get their 
health restored by sea voyages in Summer, 
and by a sojourn in Italy or Algiers during 
the Winter. Ada's letters not only made 
me well acquainted with other countries, 



EFFIE MAXWBLL. 155 

but led me to take a warm interest in 
their social customs and future destiny. 
I was somewhat chagrined that these 
letters could not remain my own pri- 
vate property. All the school became 
acquainted with their contents, for Miss 
Landor insisted on my reading them aloud 
in the evening while my companions were 
employed in needlework, on the ground 
that it was a good lesson for them both in 
composition and in descriptive geography. 
But at length an event occurred which 
diffused an unexpected radiance over the 
last days of my school life. 

Miss Landor had a sister married to one 
of the wealthy residents of Cheltenham. 
That sister had a daughter, who, at the 
time of my arrival there, was finishing her 
education under her aunt's roof. Agnes 
Wakefield had won all our hearts by the 
kindliness of her disposition. She had left 
school three years ago, and was now about 



156 EPFIE MAXWELL. 

to be married to a landed proprietor of the 
neighbourhood — in fact, was making what 
was considered a brilliant match. Her 
parents had determined that this wedding 
should be the event of the season, and that 
no effort on their part should be spared 
which could add to its splendour. Amongst 
other extravagancies of display, they had 
determined that she should have twenty 
bridesmaids. It so happened that the 
Somervilles were related to the bridegroom 
elect, and they therefore accepted Miss 
Wakefield's invitation to form part of the 
brilliant train. The others were to be 
her cousins, and such of her former school 
companions as were still at Miss Landor's. 
Amongst the number I was included. It 
was true that my parents were much 
averse to my joining in any gaiety, but 
the circumstance of the bride's relationship 
to Miss Landor induced them to waive 
their objections. 

j he reader may imagine to how much 



EFPIB MAXWELL. 157 

excitement such an event naturally gave 
rise in a ladies' school. Our dresses were 
to be becoming and inexpensive — plain 
white tarlatans looped up with festoons of 
rosebuds ; wreaths of rosebuds and tulle 
veils. There was to be a dance in the 
evening, enlivened by a little music, to 
which latter entertainment we were ex- 
pected to contribute. I had till now been 
allowed by Signor Sabrini to practise only 
scales and exercises, and I well remember 
what a sensation was caused in the house 
by my commencing some songs for this 
occasion. The other girls stood at the 
door to listen ; the servants desisted from 
their work ; and even Mr. Appleby would 
not go on with his lessons if I practised in 
an adjoining room. So Miss Landor ar- 
ranged that I was to practise while the 
others took their mid-day walk ; and at my 
ordinary music hour she sent, me on some 
errand into town. 

At length the eventful week arrived* 



158 EFFUS MAXWELL. 

The Somervilles were to stay at Mr. 
Thornton's, so that I saw them only for a 
few minutes when they called on Miss 
Landor the day previous to the marriage. 
I thought Jessie wonderfully improved in 
appearance. Her face had lost something 
of its former flush, her black eyes sparkled 
with repressed wit, and her form had gained 
a fulness which harmonized with the rich 
luxuriance of her glossy hair. Ada looked 
a very little older. The colour on her 
<?heek had deepened — perhaps it was only 
from sunburn ; but she seemed as fragile 
and unprepared for life's storms as do the 
fair petals of her favourite flower when 
reposing on the unruffled bosom of the 
sunlit lake. She embraced me very affec- 
tionately, and said that her brother looked 
forward with pleasure to making my ac- 
quaintance. 

Thursday morning dawned. The hair- 
dresser was in attendance, and twisted up 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 159 

my tresses into innumerable little rolls. 
Having finished my own preparations, I 
busied myself so much with assisting some 
of my companions, and with repairing an 
awkward rent in Emily Jones' dress, that I 
very nearly made myself late. Our carriage 
was the very last to arrive at Mr. Wake- 
field's house, where we were ushered into 
the ante-drawing-room. Some one said 
that my brooch was not properly fastened, 
and I was sent into an adjoining boudoir 
to adjust it. Passing beneath costly em- 
broidered draperies of blue silk, I found 
myself in an apartment decorated from 
floor to ceiling with gigantic pier-glasses. 
I glanced around me, and amongst the 
innumerable exquisite little specimens of 
upholstery and cabinet-work which were 
scattered around, I saw moving towards 
me an unexpected apparition, such a one 
as I might have cod jured up in my dreams. 
It was the fairy-like form of a young girl, 



160 EFFIK MAXWELL. 

robed in white, with luxuriant glossy brown 
locks streaming over her shoulders. Her 
features were small, and as faultless in 
outline as if they had been chiselled in 
Parian marble. Beneath her arching eye* 
brows, and underneath the long tapering 
eyelashes, beamed forth a pair of soft 
brown eyes. Every movement of her sylph- 
like figure displayed some new grace. 
" She must be one of the bridesmaids/' 
thought I, " for she is habited like myself." 
I had never dreamt of beholding such love- 
liness, save in one of Guido's pictures, and 
it was therefore with a feeling of reverence 
that I approached in order to salute her. 
She approached me too, and that only too 
quickly, for, to my utter surprise, my hand 
knocked against hers in the glass. I re- 
coiled in amazement. I had been gazing 
at myself ! Yes, Jessie was right, and for 
the first time I awoke to the consciousness 
that I was surpassingly beautiful. 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 161 

" Effie, be quick — we're waiting/' cried 
Emily Jones. 

I hastened to rejoin the others, feeling 
very glad that no one had seen the ludi- 
crous encounter between myself and my 
shadow. 

We were soon walking betwixt crowds 
of people along a narrow aisle, and some- 
how I knew that when the ladies beside 
me made remarks about beauty, they were 
applied to me, and not to the bride. It 
was a very dangerous revelation, yet I 
could not help reflecting that I was in no 
way different to-day from what I had been 
yesterday, only the scales had fallen from 
my eyes. Would for my own peace of 
mind that they had remained a little 
longer ! 

I reasoned thus with myself during the 
service : " Effie, have not many women 
had beautiful faces, and where are these 
faces now? Do not pride yourself on a 

VOL. I. M 



162 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

possession which might be lost by a night 
of disease. And suppose you should be 
loved for your looks, would you, love any- 
one merely for looks yourself ? Those who 
will flatter you on account of them would 
soon turn their backs if you were in afflic- 
tion. If the good things of this world be 
equally apportioned, you will have some 
very heavy trial to counterbalance any 
advantage you may derive from your 
beauty." 

The ceremony being finished, we returned 
to the house. After a merry banquet, the 
young couple departed, and we sat in the 
drawing-room awaiting the time when the 
shades of evening should summon us to 
celebrate the rites of Terpsichore. I was 
very soon joined by Ada. 

" Everyone is remarking how well you 
look to-day, Effie," she said. "You are 
wonderfully improved since we saw you 
last — I mean in appearance ; I don't need 
to ask if you are improved in other things, 



EFfclJS MAXWELL. 163 

for I knew how diligent you always were. 
But here is a young man who would like 
to be introduced to you." 

11 1 have long wished to know Miss Max- 
well," said Alan, stepping forward. But 
how different was he from the ideal I had 
formed of him ! I had expected to see a 
male counterpart of Ada, and yet I cannot 
say T was surprised. It seemed to me as 
if somehow I had known Alan all my life. 
His countenance was never to me as the 
Countenance of a stranger. He had a 
well-built, manly figure, broad shoulders, 
surmounted by a finely-shaped head. Be- 
neath his massive forehead shone a pair of 
deeply-set black eyes — eyes not melancholy, 
like Ada's, but full of a keen sweetness 
that lingered on one's memory. He had a 
Roman nose, a sunburnt complexion, and 
a wealth of raven black hair. His voice 
had something of the mellowness of his 
sister's. 

, V. I am glad we meet on such an 

m2 



164 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

auspicious occasion/' continued he, " and I 
hope, when you return to Kilronan, that 
Ada will have the opportunity of seeing 
you sometimes. Miss Landor tells me we 
are to have the pleasure of hearing you 
sing to-night. I am going to prefer a 
modest request. You have attained some 
reputation in the musical line, and in Kil- 
ronan we are trying to improve that 
church choir of ours — their singing has 
really been wretched of late — may we 
count on your assistance in this good 
work ?" 

" Certainly you may, should my mother 
approve of it," replied I. 

We conversed for some time about 
music and literature. Ada recounted to 
us some of the scenes she had witnessed 
in foreign lands, and the time passed only 
too swiftly until Jane Wakefield came up 
and advised us to put ourselves into a 
little better order for the evening's enter- 
tainment. The house soon became filled 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 165 

with guests. I was often asked to dance, 
but always declined, on the ground that I 
had not received permission from my 
parents to do so. The Somervilles did not 
dance, and Alan was several times rallied 
on the subject, Jane Wakefield declaring 
that it was because he preferred Effie's 
society to making himself useful. He 
humoured her wishes by escorting her to 
the supper-room, but, somehow or other, 
he always contrived to return to my side. 

At length Miss Landor came up and 
said, 

" Mrs. Wakefield requests that you will 
sing now, my dear. One of your Scotch 
songs I believe she would like." 

I obeyed, and chose, in honour of the 
occasion, " Oh ! hey for somebody !" Miss 
Landor accompanying me on the piano. 
Every murmur was hushed whilst I sang, 
aud, as 1 finished, I was unexpectedly 
greeted with several rounds of applause. 
I had felt no fear whilst singing; but I 



166 KF1TB MAXWELL. 

did not relish being the cynosure of all 
fcyes, and I fell back with burning cheeks* 
Ada seized my hand, and, in a tone of 
suppressed emotion, said, 

"Effie, you know I never flatter any- 
one, but you have really got an exquisite 



voice." 



" Why," said her cousin, Captain Proud- 
foot, of the Dumfries-shire Militia, " Miss 
Maxwell should go on the stage, and I'll bet 
shell make a fortune. Shell be quite an 
acquisition to you in Kilronan." 

" I hope Miss Maxwell will not need to 
employ her talents in that way," said 
Alan ; " but I must heartily congratulate 
her on being able to give so much enjoy- 
ment to her friends." 

" Well," said Captain Proudfoot, " you'll 
see me oftener in Kilronan church than 
you used to do, if Miss Maxwell is going 
to be so condescending as to sing in our 
country choir. Just think how the farm- 
ers' wives will all gape when they hear her 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 167 

voice ! 'Tis a pity they only sing psalm- 
tunes." 

" And if you could sing a good psalm- 
tune yourself/' said Jessie, " you might bo 
proud. I wonder you're not ashamed to 
say that that's all the reason you go to 
church for." 

" No doubt, Jessie, I should soon learn 
to sing, and to teach school too, if you 
would take me in hand," said the Captain. 
11 Do you know what that fellow Wakefield 
is saying ?" 

11 No, I don't, and I'm sure I don't care 
either. 7 ' 

" He is laughing at the Scotch law of 
marriage. I wish, Alan, you would ex- 
plain it to him. He says he would not 
like to live in such a country, because he 
might find himself married before he knew 
of it." 

11 Oh ! tell him there's not the slightest 
danger," said Ada. "Effie and I have 
lived the greater part of our lives in Scot- 



163 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

land, and you see we're not married yet. 
He would be at least as safe as we are/' 

"I won't answer for Miss Maxwell's 
safety," said the gallant captain. " Half 
the young fellows in the room are wishing 
that song had been about them." 

"Effie, we're not going to stand and 
listen to any nonsense," said Ada. But 
Mrs. Wakefield wished me to sing again, 
and I was encored and encored until Miss 
Landor would stand it no longer, and 
declared that she must carry me off it there 
was any more of it. I took a long kiss 
from Ada when I said good-night. I knew 
not when I should have such a pleasant 
talk with her again. Congratulations on 
my success fell in showers on my ears, 
yet they failed to gratify me so much as 
did the warm pressure of Ada's hand, the 
bright glance of Ada's eye. Oh, fond 
memories ! how I love to linger over you ! 
Shall ye ever be renewed for me again ? 

I drove home with Miss Landor in Mrs. 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 169 

Wakefield's carriage. She placed her arm 
round my neck and kissed me affection- 
ately. 

" You have indeed done me credit, my 
dear Effie," she said. " So many ladies 
remarked to me how much your unpretend- 
ing manners set off your brilliant talents. 
Take my advice, Effie, and never try to 
show off. Sing because you really wish to 
please others, and always think that some 
may be hearing you who could have done 
better than you if they had had your 
opportunities. By-the-by, I forgot to tell 
you that I had a letter from your mamma 
this morning, to say that your uncle has 
got an attack of rheumatism, and will not 
be able to come for you. She asks me to 
send you with anyone who may be travel- 
ling north, and should I know of no one, 
she thinks you might go by yourself. But 
the Somervilles are all going home the day 
after to-morrow, don't you think you might 
arrange to go with them ?" 



170 EFFIE MAXWELL* 

"If they will have me," said I. No 
proposition, however, could have been 
more welcome. The delightful prospect 
swallowed up even the grief that I felt at 
leaving the scene of so many youthful joys 
and sorrows ; the parting with my beloved 
teachers, and with some of my schoolfel* 
lows who were hardly less dear. But then 
Ada had been the lode-star of my life. I 
doubt she would have trembled had she 
known how passionately I loved her. And 
I knew that once at home our meetings 
would have all the sweetness of stolen 
waters. 

How happy I felt when we four were 
seated in the carriage, and the guard had 
shut the door ! My last kiss was wafted 
from my hand to Miss Landor, my last 
package was stowed beneath the cushions ; 
hedgerow and grange flitted faster and 
faster past our straining eyes, and Jessie 
had buried herself in a shilling novel when 
I entered into conversation with Ada and 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 151 

her brother. Not that Ada spoke much ; 
the effort to make herself heard above the 
noise of the wheels being more than she 
was quite able for. I knew so much of 
what had been the feelings of Mr. Somer- 
ville (why do I call him Alan ?) that my 
shyness soon wore off, and I was astonished 
at my own volubility. Mr. Somerville 
having purchased a newspaper, Jessie 
remarked, 

"Alan, what do you find interesting in 
all these lawsuits? I suppose you see 
something in them that we don't." 

" They concern my profession," respond- 
ed her brother. " You know the story of 
the shoemaker who looked hopelessly dull 
until leather was spoken of, and then he 
exclaimed, ' Talk to me of leather, there's 
nothing like leather !'" 

"And I daresay," said Jessie, " these 
stupid columns give you fine examples of 
how to tell lies. That's what all you 
lawyers are good at." 



172 EFfXB MAXWELL. 

" You don't pat too fine a point on it," 
said Alan, laughing. 

"But seriously," said Ada, the train 
having now stopped at the Ashchurch 
station, " Effie and I have often wondered 
how a barrister can reconcile it with his 
conscience to undertake a bad case." 

" I should like to hear your philosophy 
of the subject," replied her brother. " Now, 
if you had had the misfortune to belong to 
our sex, what profession would you have 
chosen ?" 

" I should like to have been a clergy- 
man/' said Ada. 

" And I a doctor," said I. 

" Fd rather have been a soldier, or an 
executioner," said Jessie. " As well cut off 
people's heads at once as shorten their 
lives by pills, or trifle with something more 
precious in the pulpit." 

Jessie again buried herself in her book, 
and relapsed into silence. 

" The Christian standard is a very high 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 17& 

one/' said Mr. Somerville. u But is there 
any situation in life where it does not come 
into conflict with received opinions? A 
man generally thinks that to come up to 
the world's standard of honour is all that 
is expected of him. We will leave the 
question of a soldier's being engaged in an 

§ 

unjust war, for a soldier has pledged his 
liberty, and can no longer be considered a 
free agent." 

" He may sell his commission," said I. 

" And be called a coward. But we will 
leave him out of the question. Is a 
doctor never called to prescribe for a 
malady whose complications he does not 
quite understand ? Does he plead ignor- 
ance, or does he give a wise shake of the 
head, and order some remedy of whose 
efficacy he is, to say the least, doubtful ? 
To be sure, when the case is unusual, a 
really honest physician will call in other 
advice. But .will he over refuse a fee 
when he knows he has done harm instead 



174 SFF1B MAXWELL. 

of good? His brother physicians would 
taboo him if he did, and his candour 
would cost him dozens of patients. Dis- 
ease baffles our greatest doctors, but how 
few of them ever own it ! And then the 
clergy. Do none of them preach truths 
into whose authenticity they never took 
the trouble to examine — or about which 
they themselves have doubts? And is 
not that hypocrisy ? Mind, I do not say 
that all clergymen do so — far from it. But 
I say it is their constant temptation. You 
have only to look at the way in which our 
Evangelical friends in England gloss over 
the baptismal service, and the service for 
the consecration of priests, to be aware of 
my meaning." 

"I fear you have not quite looked at 
everything from their point of view," said 
Ada, in a husky voice. "How do we 
know that the power to declare the for- 
giveness of sins was conferred only on the 
Apostles?" 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 175 

" The very fount and origin of priest- 
craft !" exclaimed Alan. "I should say 
that it was so from negative inference. If 
such a tremendous power was to be en- 
trusted to a mortal arm, some directions 
would surely have been given for its use to 
the representative pastors, Timothy and 
Titus. Their domestic concerns, on which 
St. Paul dwells so much, were trifles in 
comparison." 

" And do you consider a merchant safe ?* 
asked I. 

" Far from it. The business world 
teems with temptations which you ladies 
have no idea of. In the race for wealth 
the man who seeks to keep his feet scru- 
pulously clean will often be outrun." 

" But he will have a better reward than 
riches," said I. 

" Yes, the blessing that bringeth no 
sorrow," murmured Ada. 

14 Well, for your satisfaction, I may tell 
you," said Mr. Somerville, "that I am 



176 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

resolved never to undertake a case where I 
dare not speak plain truth. Of course I 
shall be called Quixotic, and shall be 
longer in making a name for myself, but I 
doubt not in the end it will come all 
right." 

" And the .doubtful cases will keep away 
from you," said I. " As we used to write 
in our copy-books, c The first blow is half 
the battle.' So the temptation will grow 
less and less in proportion as your resolu- 
tion becomes known. It seems to me that 
that is how the world is to be made better 
— not so much by people trying to reform 
others, as by each one endeavouring to set 
up the highest possible standard for him- 
self." 

" And herself," said Alan, smiling. 

Thus, during our railway journey, did 
we interchange our thoughts and views of 
life in a way unusual for young people. 
But about both Ada and Alan there was 
something intensely earnest and practical 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 177 

■a loftiness of aim for themselves and a 



charity towards others that could not fail 
to shed a fragrance about all they said and 
did. Invigorated in spirit, but weary in 
body, I reached my native town. Mrs. 
Somerville was again waiting at the station 
for her children ; but before she had time 
to greet them, the carriage door was 
opened by my cousin Frederick, whose tall 
form, enveloped in a thick overcoat, com- 
pletely intercepted my view of that amiable 
lady. 

"So, Effie, you've come back at last. 
My eye ! how you've grown ! Glad to see 
you, old girl !" 

It was some time before I could release 
my hand from his grasp, and I then saw 
that my companions had descended from 
the carriage, and were standing beside us 
on the platform. Ada presented me to 
her mother, who shook hands cordially 
with me, and bowed civilly to Fred. After 
kissing me affectionately, the two girls 

VOL. I. N 



178 EFFJE MAXWELL. 

retreated with her to their carriage. Mr. 
Somerville insisted on keeping them waiting 
until he saw that my box was out, and 
then, lifting his hat, said politely, 

" I should have walked home with you, 
Miss Maxwell, did I not see that you have 
a better escort." 

He then shook hands and disappeared 
down the stairs. I felt rather forsaken as 
I gave up my ticket, and we two trudged 
along the High Street of Kilronan. Fred 
rattled away in his usual manner. 

" I say, Effie, how did you come to take 
up with such swells as these Somervilles ? 
A fine-looking fellow that advocate is — I'm 
quite jealous of him." 

" You have no right to be so," said I, 
quietly. 

"No right! Shouldn't a fellow be 
jealous when he sees his sweetheart taking 
up with a cove like that ?" 

" Fred," said I, " I have got a few shil- 
lings in my purse, and if you use such a 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 179 

word to me again, I shall call a cab and go 
home by myself." 

11 Eh !" said Fred, opening his eyes very 
wide and retreating a little, "there are 
not many cabs in Kilronan. But I wonder 
you didn't ask your fine friends to give us 
a lift in their carriage. That fellow looked 
as if he wouldn't mind going a bit out of 
his road for you." 

And Fred beguiled the rest of the way 
by scraps of gossip about everyone he 
knew. 



n2 



180 



M 



CHAPTER XL 

* 

RS. MACLEAN to Miss Euphemia 
Maxwell — 



" My beloved Nieoe, 

"It gave me much pleasure to 
receive your last letter, and to learn from 
it that you are on the eve of completing 
your education and of returning home. 
My dearest child, I need not say to you 
that I think you are approaching a very 
important epoch of your life. You are 
now expected to put in practice all those 
good principles which have been so care- 
fully instilled into you from your child- 
hood, those lessons which were first learn- 



BFFIE MAXWELL* 181 

ed at a mother's knee, and which, daring the 
acquisition of more showy accomplishments, 
have never been altogether lost sight of. 
During the past few years your efforts 
have been entirely devoted to self-improve* 
ment, now the interests of others must * 
occupy a large share of your attention. 

"Tour first and most sacred duty is to 
your parents. They are people of quiet 
tastes, and it will be your duty (I hope you 
will not find it a sacrifice) to relinquish 
Borne of the innocent pleasures of youth to 
make their home more cheerful. I under- 
stand that God has given to you the gift 
of beauty and the gift of song. Both &re 
dangerous possessions if they be not made 
subordinate to the one great end for which 
we were created. I am glad to learn also 
that religion has obtained some hold of 
your heart. Do not let that plant wither, 
my child, it is the only one that will pre- 
serve its bloom amidst the storms of Winter 
as beneath the smiles of Summer. 



182 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

" I trust that your youth will be spent to 
more purpose than mine was. Devote a 
few hours of every day to the study of 
science or of classic literature ; and should 
your time not be entirely taken up with 
household duties, seek some object out of 
doors that shall have worth sufficient for 
an immortal being to spend his energies 
upon. There are many sick people whom 
your sympathy might comfort ; there are 
many ignorant children whom you might 
inspire with a thirst for knowledge, and 
you will find that your vocal powers will 
give you influence to do both. 

"As you live in Kilronan, I have no 
nedd to warn you against the allurements 
of the fashionable world. Nor need you 
regret your isolation from it. I can assure 
you, from my own experience, that its 
smiles are mockeries, its promised pleasures 
a cheat. Oh, if you knew how my heart 
aches at the remembrance of them, you 
would fly from the temples of its votaries 



BFFIE MAXWELL 183 

as you would from the neighbourhood of 
a pestilential marsh ! Better the most hum- 
ble lot in life than the gilded hollo wn ess 
which is the portion of the titled and 
the proud! Hollow, did I say? — no, 
rotten, rotten like the peach which 
glistens on our garden walls, and harbours 
the worm at its heart. I would rather 
know that a friend of mine was toiling for 
her bread, even should she toil to the 
wearing away of her bodily frame, than 
that she should live the life that I have 
done. 

"You will be surprised at my vehe- 
mence. Youth seldom adopts the wisdom 
of age. Each one insists on making the 
experiment for himself, and each one is in 
turn disenchanted. It is because I love 
you so much that I would seek to spare 
you a few pangs ; and though I may not 
hope that my warnings will influence your 
future conduct, they may serve to make 
you more contented, should you meet with 



184 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

others who enjoy a position apparently 
more advantageous than your own. That 
Providence may shower on you the richest 
of its blessings, and enable you to lead a 
really useful life, is the fervent prayer of 
" Tour ever affectionate aunt, 

" Helen Maclean." 

From Miss Buphemia Maxwell to Mrs. 
Maclean : — 

" My dearest Aunt, 

" The perusal of your last letter 
afforded me much pleasure. I am gratified 
to think that distance has not diminished 
your interest in me, as it assuredly has not 
my affection for you. 

" I have now returned home, and shall 
seek to follow your good advice. But you 
will pardon me, dear aunt, if I do not quite 
understand your vehement denunciation of 
the pleasures of society. What are the 
snares of the fashionable world ? Do you 
mean the tyranny which would stretch 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 185 

everyone on a Procrustean bed? which 
would enact that every member of the 
gentler sex shall follow one unvarying line 
of conduct? You compare the honours 
for which our poor human nature craves to 
the peaches upon our garden walls, which 
hide the worm in their empty and stony 
hearts. But is not life full of such il- 
lusions? Though the hopes of youth be 
so often doomed to disappointment, are 
the energies which they evoke quite thrown 
away? We seek to grasp the peaches, 
and we gain strength if we do not gain 
satisfaction. 

" Then as to the question of society. I 
do not wonder that you prefer the free 
and simple life of Australia to the formal 
affectations of Great Britain. But, dearest 
aunt, I should never wish to choose my 
friends for their outward advantages. 
Those I have chosen are sincere, simple, 
and unpretending. It seems to me that the 
evils you deplore have arisen more from 



186 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

the frivolous education we women for the 
most part receive, than from any defect in 
the constitution of society itself. A mind 
that has tasted of intellectual pleasures 
cannot occupy itself with trifles, and those 
who follow the standard of taste which 
they themselves have set up, do not feel 
disappointment. What I should strongly 
object to would be to be obliged to do a 
thing because other people did it. I should 
seek to be kind to everyone, but to culti- 
vate most the acquaintance of those whose 
society inspires me with a desire for moral 
improvement. 

14 Since I began this letter my father has 
just received the sad news of your dear 
husband's death. I never had the pleasure 
of knowing him, but I feel that this blow 
will be a very crushing one for you. May 
He who gave, and has taken away, Himself 
comfort your wounded heart, is the prayer 
of your very loving niece, 

" Euphkmja Maxwell/' 



187 



CHAPTER XII. 

rTIOR some time after coming home I did 
-■- not feel dull. I rose early, lit the 
fire which had been laid for me over-night, 
and studied Shakespeare until breakfast 
time. At ten o'clock I walked with my 
father to his office, did my mothers com- 
missions in town, and then returned ta 
study some scientific work until our two- 
o'clock dinner. At three I visited the poor r 
or worked in the garden until five, when 
my mother's going out allowed of my prac- 
tising. After tea I read history or fiction, 
or plied my needle whilst my father read 



188 BPFIE MAXWELL. 

aloud. But as Winter came on I could 
not help feeling the want of congenial 
society. 

The Somervilles moved in an entirely 
different circle from ours. The few fami- 
lies who visited with my mother were 
many of them excellent in their way, but 
they were of a much commoner class than 
that with which I had been acquainted at 
Cheltenham. I did try to interest myself 
In their homely pursuits, but it was impos- 
sible that they could have much compre- 
hension of mine. And what human nature 
most craves for is sympathy. This I at 
first expected to find in my father, but 
after various efforts I was obliged reluc- 
tantly to confess to a sense of disappoint- 
ment. The knowledge which he had ac- 
quired, and had imparted to me, was indeed 
a substantial foundation, worthy of a more 
elegant superstructure ; but in his case the 
superstructure had stopped halfway, or, 
perhaps, had never been begun. And a 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 18£ 

mind that has ceased to grow is hardly a 
fit match for one in the vigour of youthful 
life. He had not even the stimulus of 
active business to stir the latent sap of his 
intellectual nature, for, as I have once 
before mentioned, he was a lawyer whom 
few, clients consulted ; and he was ner- 
vously anxious lest I should be led into 
displaying the superiority I unmistakably 
felt. He so frequently stigmatized my 
suggestions as " school-girl's wisdom," that 
I at length became taciturn, and strove to 
defer ostensibly to his assertions of know- 
ledge, although I knew in my heart that I 
was stooping unnaturally. 

I therefore had to drown my sense of 
loneliness more and more in my books. 
Notwithstanding what I had written to 
Aunt Helen, I was far from possessing 
that rarest of all virtues, contentment. I 
had made a foolish promise about the care 
I should exercise in choosing my friends. 
Alas I there were none to choose amongst „' 



190 BFFIE MAXWELL. 

Only at church did I see countenances 
with the possessors of which I thought I 
might enjoy some intellectual conversation, 
but they belonged to people who could not 
consider the inhabitants of our cottage as 
appertaining to their set. One familiar 
face I always encountered at the door as 
we went out; it was that of young Mr. 
Somerville, who was always the first to 
leave the church, and who then waited 
outside to rejoin his parents and sisters. 
I often wondered he had not patience to 
remain seated until they rose. He always 
greeted me with a pleasant smile. 

One Sunday afternoon, Mr. Wardlaw 
overtook us on our way home. After ex- 
changing greetings, he announced to my 
mother that he had a request to make of 
her. "It is this," he continued. " Mrs. 
Somerville and some of the most respected 
members of my congregation are anxious 
to do something to improve our psalmody. 
They wish to form a choral society out of 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 191 

all the people who have voices. The mem- 
bers shall not bind themselves to sing in 
the choir, but out of their number a new 
choir may eventually be formed. Lady 
Cardoness and her daughter are to be 
patronesses of the movement. May I 
hope that you will allow Miss Bffie to join 
them ?" 

" Bffie has had very good lessons, and, 
I believe, sings well," said my mother ; 
" and since you have done her the honour 
to ask her, I am sure she cannot refuse. 
But where are they to practise ?" 

" At the manse. The first meeting is 
to be on Friday at half-past seven, to suit 
some of the young men who are engaged 
in business at Dumfries and Edinburgh. 
May I count on your presence, Miss Bffie ?" 

I promised very readily that I would 
come, and I could not help admiring Mr. 
Wardlaw's tact — for, had he addressed 
himself to me, or to my father, in the first 
instance, I am sure that I never should < 



1 



192 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

have obtained permission to do so. Our 
worthy precentor had such a disregard of 
time, and often of tune, that I had never 
ventured to unite my voice to his- In- 
deed, his chief endeavour, and that of his 
assistants, was to make as much noise as 
they could, on the principle that a fine 
sound did not so much signify, if only it 
came from the heart. 

Friday evening came, and in Mr. Ward- 
law's still unfurnished drawing-room was 
gathered a motley assemblage. Chairs 
had been placed in rows round the uncar- 
peted room, and in an easy one by the fire- 
place was seated the Lady of the Manor, 
the Viscountess Cardoness. By her side 
sat her only daughter, Lady Eleanor — a 
handsome girl of seventeen, who was not 
yet supposed to have come out, Mrs. 
Somerville was seated at a small harmoni- 
um. Her son stood at her side, whilst 
Ada and Jessie had half hidden themselves 
behind the Misses Taylor, in the recess of 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 198 

the bay window. I was not long in find- 
ing a seat beside them. 

Mr. Wardlaw glanced at his assembled 
guests, and then said he would ask Alan 
Somerville to make a short statement of 
his reasons for calling them together. 

" Many of you have expressed a wish/' 
he continued, " to make me the chairman 
of your society. I am not well fitted for 
the post, but I shall claim a privilege 
sometimes accorded to chairmen elect, by 
nominating Mr. Somerville as my deputy." 

Mr. Somerville then explained that his 
mother and he had been led to think of 
forming such a society from the conviction 
that no one in the congregation, excepting 
our worthy precentor, was in the habit of 
giving half an hour's practice to sacred 
music during the week. 

" Is this as it should be ?" he asked. 
" Are our voices so magnificent that they 
cannot be improved ? I know some of 
you country people have been making ob- 

vol. I. 



194 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

jections. You say we want to imitate the 
English. And why should we not imitate 
them in a good thing? We do not wish 
to introduce much new music ; we wish to 
try to sing the old tunes well. Some of 
them have names immortalized by Burns 
in his * Qotter's Saturday Night.' "We 
should do something towards making them 

» 

better appreciated. I am sure I shall not 
appeal in vain to those who have received 
a musical education. Tou could not con- 
secrate your talents to a higher service. 
B.ut I will let your consciences speak, and 
tell you how we propose to begin. 

" We think that the whole management 
should be left in the hands of one or two 
— we shall assuredly come to grief if we 
have too many heads, — but, as we cannot 
well arrange anything without knowing 
each other's capabilities, it is proposed 
that each lady and gentleman who con- 
sents to be enrolled shall, in the first 
place, sing an air of his or her own choos- 



KFF1B MAXWELL. 105 

ing ; and that the three who are consider- 
ed to excel shall then be chosen by vote. 
My mother will play an accompaniment for 
any who may desire it." 

Lady Cardoness, Mr. Wardlaw, and 
others, having signified their approval, the 
members of the old choir were first called 
upon. Miss White, a young milliner, and 
a sister of my mother s friend, had long held 
the chief place amongst them. She had 
naturally a fine voice, and it had received 
a sort of cultivation, but she was apt to 
pitch it too high, and her articulation was 
so indistinct that, without the minister's 
announcement, you could scarcely find out 
which psalm she was singing. Then came 
the Misses Taylor, of Craigie, a farmer's 
daughters, two tall, buxom women, who 
had voices corresponding to their physical 
forms. Voices loud, strong, and with not 
a particle of feeling in them. The mis- 
fortune was that the performance of these 
ladies had always been highly spoken of to 

02 



196 EPPIB MAXWELL. 

themselves, and they were not aware of 
what a mechanical effect their singing pro- 
duced. They went through their trials 
with a complacent air, which seemed to 
say that no one could possibly compete 
with them. 

Most of the other members of the old 
choir shrank from the ordeal. Several 
young ladies with faint voices and feeble 
utterance were next tried. One of them 
sang in a very affected manner. Having 
been educated at Miss MacdougalTs, she 
evidently thought herself vastly superior 
to those who had preceded her. Lady 
Cardoness's daughter declined entering 
into competition. Jessie Somerville in- 
formed me that she was going to sing 
for my encouragement, and she certainly 
did give us " God save the Queen " in a 
very sweet contralto. 

Then Mr. Somerville came forward to 
me. " I have kept you to the last on pur- 
pose/' said he, " for I rely greatly on your 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 197 

help-" Lady Oardoness and Mr. Ward- 
law smiled graciously as I passed them. 

"Is there any music here that you 
know ?" asked Mrs. Somerville. 

I lifted a volume of the " Messiah," and 
she rose with a smile. 

" I cannot play that," she said. 

Mr. Somerville took her seat. Why 
did I tremble as he did so ? But I soon 
forgot my audience, and tried to throw 
my whole soul into the strains of "I 
know that my Redeemer liveth." 

When I had finished, Lady Cardoness 
came forward and said : 

" My dear Mrs. Somerville, this is in- 
deed a treat. May I ask where your young 
friend has been taught ?" 

" At Cheltenham, at the same school as 
my daughters," answered Mrs. Somerville. 

Cl Oh, I understand. Her parents wish, 
I suppose, to give her a fair chance should 
she one day have to do something for her- 
self." 



198 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

I thought Mr. Somerville looked an- 
noyed. 

"I do not know," replied his mother, 
drily, " what Mr. Maxwell's views or wishes 
are. But perhaps Miss Maxwell will 
again favour us with some simpler air." 

I chose "Jerusalem the Golden." Mrs. 
Somerville played, Mr. Somerville accom- 
panied me with a rich tenor, and Jessie 
with her sweet contralto. We only wanted 
a bass voice to make it perfect. After we 
had finished, I noticed that several of our 
audience were shedding tears. Miss White, 
I thought, looked slightly chagrined at the 
prospect of being deposed from her throne. 
The youngest Miss Taylor was the first to 
speak. 

" I am sure," she said, " we do not need 
to vote for who shall have the first place in 
the management. It is settled by Nature 
that Miss Maxwell shall have it." 

" I propose," said Mr. Wardlaw, " that 
we make Miss Maxwell president, and sub- 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 199 

mit unreservedly to her dictation. She is 
so much our superior that we are willing 
to be under a despotism." 

" Oh no, it is not so," said I, slipping 
down by Ada's side. 

"May I be permitted to remark, sir, 
that you have relinquished your right to 
speak ?" said Mr. Somerville. il You with- 
drew from our society at the very com- 
mencement. But I propose to constitute 
Miss Maxwell president, and that she 
should work for her office by instructing 
those of us who are most backward." 

" Alan, you are very impudent," said 
his mother. 

" No, I am not, mamma. I know what 
Miss Maxwell would like better than you 
do." 

" I am quite willing to be useful," whis- 
pered I to Ada. " But some may not be 
willing that I should teach them." 

" Then they may withdraw," whispered 
Ada. 



200 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

" Well," said Jessie, aloud, " let us form 
a class which Miss Maxwell can teach. 
Ada and I will send our harmonium to the 
vestry, and we can get old Mrs. Patrick to 
light a fire any night Miss Maxwell wishes/' 

" I am sure we shall all be much indebt- 
ed to her," said Miss Taylor. 

Miss White said nothing. All the young 
ladies present, excepting Lady Eleanor, 
volunteered to be my pupils. We seemed 
threatened with a lack of male voices, but 
Mr. Somerville said he intended hunting 
up some of the young men, and organizing 
them into a class himself. We could meet 
in the vestry on Friday evenings to prac- 
tise together; but for the next month I 

and the ladies could have it all to our- 
selves. 

Some sandwiches and negus were now 

handed about amongst the company. I 

thought Miss White looked very unhappy, 

80 J ^PPed up to her and said in a low 
tone: 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 201 

" You have a very good voice — the best 
voice of any one here. But I think I could 
teach you a little, for I have had very good 
masters. Do you think I could give you a 
few lessons at home ?" 

She brightened immediately, and an- 
swered : 

"Yes, I should like that very much. 
But it is a great deal too fatiguing for you." 

"Not in the least," said I. "I will 
come any night you like, an hour before I 
go to the vestry. Tou can give me a cup 
of tea afterwards, and then I shall be able 
to take my class." 

" When are you going to begin ?" asked 
Mrs. Somerville. 

" To-morrow, if you like," answered I. 

So it was arranged; and everyone de- 
parted in high spirits. Mrs. Somerville 
and her daughters had a very short way to 
walk home. Mr. Wardlaw offered to escort 
them ; and to my surprise I found Mr. 
Somerville waiting for me." 



202 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

" But you are going far out of your way,* 
I exclaimed. 

" A walk does me good/' he answered ; 
" especially on such a beautiful night." 

I could scarcely believe the evidence of 
my senses when I found him moving by 
my side along a country footpath, over 
which a clump of trees occasionally threw 
their dark shadows in the moonlight. 

"Tour singing has touched me very 
deeply," he said, as soon as we were out of 
earshot. " There is a very sure hope ex- 
pressed in that song of Handel's. But do 
not you think these words were applicable 
to the prophet's own peculiar circum- 
stances ? Are we justified in appropriating 
them to ourselves ?" 

41 You open up a very difficult question," 
said I. 

" And a very interesting one," he answer- 
ed. "I daresay you have read what scien- 
tific men say on the subject; that our 
bodily frame has been built up out of the 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 20? 

vegetable world, and that it must again go 
through the transmigration of matter back 
to its constituent elements. It must in 
turn simply form what it has formed in the 
past, a component part of many other 
living organisms. Can you reconcile that 
with the resurrection of the body ? I ask 
it because you put an amount of feeling 
into Handel's music that could only come 
from deep conviction." 

" Well," I replied, " it would be too much 
for you to expect a definite creed from me 
on a subject that has puzzled many wiser 
heads than ours. But St. Paul says some- 
thing about a spiritual body, and I am sure 
his words are true, though how to recon- 
cile them with scientific research I know 
not. I have a fancy of my own on the 
subject, but I don't know if I should care 
for anyone hearing it." 

" Well, what is it ?" 

" Only that man being the superior 
part of creation, each individual composing 



204 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

the species may have somewhere or other 
•existing a true body which belongs to him. 
The different particles of that body have 
-all, at some period of his life, entered into 
the composition of the body which is ap- 
parent to our eyes. They have gone to 
nourish other organisms, it is true, and 
perhaps the bodies of other individuals. 
But they are all known to Him by whom 
our hairs are numbered, and when the last 
trumpet shall sound, each particle will find 
the proper soul to which to adhere." 

Mr. Someville laughed heartily. 

" I admire your ingenuity," said he, u if I 
•cannot agree with your theory. But that 
would imply the existence of natural laws 
more complex than any we are as yet 
aware of." 

" And who can say that such laws do not 
exist ?" said I. " The men who lived be- 
fore Newton and Galileo thought that they 
had solved the most of Nature's riddles, 
and were utterly unaware of what earth 



EFPIE MAXWELL. 205 

and water might be composed of. They . 
knew nothing of modern methods for 
searching into these things. Could they 
have seen Professor Tyndall dissect a sun- 
beam, they would have called him a ma- 
gician; his language would have been to 
them so utterly unintelligible. And there 
may be laws yet undiscovered which would 
reverse many of our present theories. In- 
deed, there may be some of them beyond 
mortal comprehension." 

11 Well," said Mr. Somerville, " I always- 
knew that women had a peculiar gift of 
imagination, but I never before compre- 
hended how much it excelled ours. I sus- 
pect that imagination is allied to faith." 

" Then you think it is our weakness ? ,r 
said I. 

" By no means. It is a most noble pos- 
session, when under the control of right 
reason. And we ought to be thankful you 
havp it, else we should stand very low in 
your estimation. If you knew us to be 



206 EFWE MAXWELL. 

the common-place mortals we are, farewell 
to the happiness of any of us." 

"Perhaps we also should be glad that 
jou do not know us better," said I. 

" I am not so sure of that/' answered 
he, as he opened our garden gate. *' I 
hope you will not have much cause for such 
gladness. But I must bid you good night 
for the present." 

So we shook hands, and parted. 

Several days afterwards I received a 
note from Lady Cardoness, saying that she 
proposed giving some amateur concerts at 
the Castle, in honour of her distinguished 

guests, the Duke and Duchess of N . 

" She should be most happy," she wrote, 
" if I would join her daughter in some of 
the concerted pieces." 

This letter produced a violent commo- 
tion at the breakfast-table. My father 
became so excited that he forgot to drink 
his coffee. 

" Such an opening for Effie I" he ex- 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 207 

claimed. "Why, if she pleases the Castle 
people, I may get some of their business 
instead of Rose." 

My mother, however, took a more ra- 
tional view of affairs. 

" Do not imagine/' she said, " that these 
people will ever treat Effie as their friend 
or equal. They will serve themselves of 
her, and then drop her like a hot potato. 
She will give a great deal more than she 
gets, and will be expected to work beyond 
her strength for the honour of being in- 
vited there." 

"Nonsense, Katie," replied my father. 
u Lady Cardoness would not be so mean, 
and it would do Effie good to let her see 
something of society. You're throwing 
away a great opportunity. Let the child 
have her own way for once. Effie, don't 
you want to go to the Castle ?" 

I remembered Aunt Helen's warning, 
and thought I should prefer teaching in 
the session-room. 



208 KFFEE MAXWELL. 

" Mamma is right," said I. 
And I wrote declining Lady Cardoness's 
invitation. 



f - — ^F^^PB^^^ 



209 



CHAPTER XIII. 

I" HAD now plenty of work ; hard enough 
-*■ it was at first, too — the hammering at 
stiff voices, which would not become pliant; 
the seeking to educe new feeling from 
organs which had never before lent them- 
selves to such a purpose. But I deter- 
mined to be strict, and to let no work pass 
which was not thoroughly well done, I 
made my pupils practise exercises until 
they and I were tired of them; indeed, 
they would hardly at first believe that I 
myself had ,been trained in a similar man- 
ner. But we persevered, for we knew 
that we had a good object in view. I felt 
that our sex would be disgraced were I to 
vol. i. r 



210 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

give in, and I only needed to sing a few 
stanzas in order to inspire my pupils with 
the spirit of emulation. We pleaded for a 
respite of six months before we should 
consider ourselves ready for concerted 
practising. And we improved our time 
most diligently. The more inexperienced 
members gave me the less trouble, that 
they had little confidence in themselves, 
and no inveterate faults to overcome. We 
trusted that the gentlemen would be ready 
to meet with us at the end of the six 
months, Mr. Somerville having obtained 
the co-operation of Mr. Fichte, a retired 
German merchant, who possessed a tho- 
rough musical culture. 

We had arranged that our classes should 
meet mostly in private houses ; but for the 
full meetings of the society we preferred 
the session-room. 

It was not until the first Friday of May 
that the first of these gatherings took 
place. Ada and Jessie were not in attend- 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 211 

ance. They had left early in the Winter 
for Pau. But Mr. Somerville was there, 
^nd was overjoyed at the proficiency dis- 
played by the female members. Mr. Fichte 
also gave us very warm encouragement, 
and I felt that my work was beginning to 
prosper. 

" A few more such meetings," said he, 
" and we shall be able to dismiss Brown, 
and take the singing into our own hands. 
If Miss Maxwell will continue her labours, 
we shall soon feel ourselves equal to the 
responsibility." 

I had arranged to walk home with Miss 
White, her house being in a street that 
ran into the road in which ours was situ- 
ated. Mr. Fichte's was near hers, so I 
was not surprised at his offering to accom- 
pany us ; but I, did not expect that Mr. 
Somerville would do so likewise. 

" You surely do not feel fatigued after 
your evening's work," said Miss White, 

je 2 



212 EFFIE MAXWELL. 



u 



or you would not come so far out of your 
way." 

Mr. Somerville vouchsafed no answer, 
but quietly allowed her and Mr. Fichte to 
drop off at their respective doors and then 
continued his walk with me. 

I cannot recollect about what we con- 
versed that evening. But I know that 
after retiring for the night, I found myself 
in a state of some perplexity. I could not 
help reflecting that this young man had 
twice offered me his escort, and that the 
second time there was not the smallest 
necessity for such an attention on his part. 
But Mr. Somerville belonged to a family 
who were justly considered to be one of 
the first in the county. They were well 
connected, highly educated, and rather 
exclusive in their choice of acquaintances. 
And if I had acquired tastes similar to 
theirs, I was conscious that I had no claim 
to mingle in the society that frequent- 
ed their house. Had I been born in 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 213 

another family, and been the same as I 
•was in every other respect, a talented 
young barrister might not have been an 
unsuitable match for me. But how would 
his friends regard it ? My relatives were 
very insignificant people, and what was 
worse, people without a spark of refine- 
ment about them. Could a young gentle- 
man call Mr. Robert Maxwell uncle ! No, 
the thing was impossible. Therefore I, 
Effie Maxwell, would in the world's opinion 
be a me'saUiance for Alan Somerville. 

It was very hard to think so. I pressed 
my head on the pillow, and the hot tears 
chased one another over my cheek. Why 
had I been sent into this world, and placed 
in circumstances so distasteful to me? 
"Why, being placed in these circumstances, 
had I been allowed to acquire habits of 
thought which unfitted me for them? I 
might have supported it all quietly enough, 
for I felt in myself the capability of making 
myself loved and honoured. But a some- 



214 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

thing had crossed my path, a something 
which I felt would be for me supremely- 
good ; and I could not debase that some- 
thing by asking it to impose some of my 
own trials on itself. 

No one guessed that I was in such a con- 
flict of feeling. I think it was on the 
Thursday after our first meeting in the 
session-room, that my father returned 
home an hour earlier than usual. He 
went into the dining-room, and sent word 
by the servant that he wished to speak 
with my mother and me. She came from 
the kitchen, and I from the garden. We 
found my father pacing the room, with his 
hands in his pockets. He looked as anxi- 
ous as if the care of the Holy Roman 
Empire were weighing on his shoulders. 

11 Sit down, Katie," he said, " for I wish 
to speak seriously. Effie, may T ask you 
how long have you known young Mr. 
Somerville ?" 

I felt my cheeks burning, for I thought 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 215 

my father had been hearing some idle 
gossip. 

"I met him first at Cheltenham," I 
answered, "and he travelled home with 
us. And I have seen him once or twice at 
our singing meetings." 

My father gazed intently at me. 

" And what do you think of him P" he ■ 
asked. 

" I don't know," murmured I, complete- 
ly at a loss, and twisting the fringes of a 
crochet antimacassar. 

"Well, Katie," he said, sitting down, 
ls you will be surprised when I tell you that 
I had a visit from Mr. Somerville this 
morning, and that we had a long talk about 
Effie." 

"Mr. Somerville !" exclaimed my mother. 

" Mr. Somerville," continued my father, 
" is a young man whom everyone speaks 
well of. He is industrious, clever, good- 
tempered, and everything that a girl could 
wish for in a husband. The family are 



216 KFFIE MAXWELL. 

well off, and there are only three to divide 
the property among; but of course the 
young people get none of it while their 
father lives. Mr. Somerville has not, I 
believe, attained such a position at the Bar 
as would enable him to set up a separate 
establishment." 

" But what has that to do with Effie ?" 
said my mother. 

"What has that to do with Effie? 
Why, everything. What had my income 
and prospects to do with you in our court- 
ing days ?" 

My mother's eyebrows rose unnaturally 
high. Her knitting dropped from her 
fingers, and her mouth opened. She moved 
her chair nervously back until it touched 
the sideboard. Then she rose and said, 

"Mr. Maxwell, you don't mean to say 
you're speaking to Effie about marriage ! 
Why, she's quite a child yet. She must 
not be spoken of in that way for a dozen 
of years." 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 217 

My father seemed much amused. 

"Well, the Queen's daughter was off 
earlier," he said. "Now, Katie, be reason- 
able, and think if you know where Effie 
could get a better match than Mr. Somer- 
ville. You don't know him, but I do. 
I've watched that young man ever since 
his nurse wheeled him past in his peram- 
bulator. I know that he will rise in the 
world, and what a comfort, when we are 
old, to think that Effie will be so well pro- 
vided for !" 

u I was not saying anything against 
him," said my mother. ci But when does 
he wish it to be, then ?" 

" Stop, Katie — not so fast. I did not 
say he had asked her in marriage — 
onlv " 

11 Only what ?" 

" Well, don't interrupt, and let me tell 
you. He only said that he had conceived 
a high opinion of my daughter, and hoped 
that, some day, he might aspire to her 



218 EPFIB MAXWELL. 

hand. It must be some years before he 
could think of marrying, but, in the mean- 
time, he expected to be thrown often into 
her society, and he feared it would not be 
honourable for him to say anything which 
might disturb her peace of mind, and per- 
haps interfere with some other plan I 
might have in view for her. He knew 
that he had never been formally presented 
to her mother, nor to me, and he only 
wished to say that, if his paying his ad- 
dresses to Bffie were disagreeable to us, he 
hoped we should warn him in time, and 
prevent his going any farther." 

" Did he mean that you should speak to 
Effie ?" asked my mother. 

" No, I don't know that he intended that," 
said my father, running his fingers through 
the hair that overhung his forehead, " but 
I wanted to hear Effie's opinion myself." 

I had buried my face in the sofa-cushion, 
but yet had not lost a word of the conver- 
sation. I now rose and endeavoured to 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 219* 

leave the room ; but, as my hand was on 
the handle of the door, my father touched 
me, and asked — 

" May I say ' yes ' to Mr. Somerville ?" 

" Yes," murmured I, opening the door, 
and escaping to my room. 

But, when there, I threw myself on my 
bed, and gave way to my feelings in a 
burst of hysterical sobs. And this was 
the earnest of life ! One little word could 
decide it. I trembled — and yet I did not 
wish to recall that word. 

My mother herself brought me some 
tea. It was a little act, but it was the 
drop in an already overflowing cup. I 
threw my arms round her neck, and begged 
her to forgive me for all the trouble I had 
ever caused her. She seemed moved her- 
self, kissed me affectionately, and said that 
I should have her blessing, and that she 
hoped I should be able to keep as well as 
to gain the love of a really good man. So 
I went to bed comforted, but on the whole 



i 



^20 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

rather apprehensive as to what should be 
on the morrow. 

I went next evening to the singing-class. 
My heart beat somewhat faster as I crossed 
the gravelled walk with "Miss White, and 
saw the lights streaming from the session- 
room windows. I felt rather relieved when 
I saw Mr. Fichte at the harmonium ; but 
the different faces seemed to me as if 
swimming round the room. Mr. Fichte 
soon asked me to play the accompaniment, 
while my own pupils sang. We were in 
the midst of " Greenland's icy mountains " 
when Mr. Somerville entered. I felt as if 
my knees were knocking together. A cold 
shaking came over me, and I dared not lift 
my eyes as he advanced. My hands 
touched the notes tremblingly, my cheeks 
tingled, and I felt I must break down. But 
a low voice beside me whispered : 

"You are surely not well to-night, Miss 
Maxwell. May I play that for you ?" 

He sat down and struck the chords 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 221 

softly and steadily. I fancied that all eyes- 
were fixed on me ; and it was some minutes 
before I ventured to blend my voice with 
the full swell of sound that encompassed 
me on every side. I took my place beside 
Miss White, and gave my whole attention 
to the printed music until the close of the- 
practising. Mr. Fichte and Mr. Somer- 
ville directed by turns. At nine we all 
prepared to go home. I donned my hat 
and shawl, and stood waiting at the door 
for Miss White. 

They went out with me — she and Mr. 
Fichte. But Mr. Somerville suffered them 
to pass, and they walked on so quickly 
that I soon found myself alone with hinu 
We went for a few steps in silence. Then 
he said : 

" I got a note from your father a few 
hours ago. Has he told you what I said 
to him yesterday ?" 

11 Yes/' faltered I. 

We had now reached a lamp-post, and 



222 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

Mr. Somerville suddenly stood still. It 
was very cruel of him to stand in the 
shade, and let the light fall full on me. 
Then he said : 

" Miss Maxwell, I have hardly dared 
to hope." But he said no more. Next 
moment his hand was on my shoulder, and 
in a low voice he asked, " May I call you 
Effie ?" 

" Yes, Alan," I answered. And I ven- 
tured to look up in his face. I saw two 
«yes beaming into mine with an intensity 
of happiness that I felt reflected somewhere 
about myself. 

" My own Effie," he murmured, drawing 
<my hand into his. And as we wandered 
along on that dark Winter evening it 
seemed as if the world were lying at our 
feet, and we too sailing away on some 
cloud into the blue hereafter. It was a 
dream — a dream that can hardly now be 
recalled, though it left a very sweet im- 
pression behind it. And as we said good 



EFFIE MAXWELI . 223 

night at the gateway, and his lips for the 
first time touched mine, I felt that my 
own being was indeed melted into that of 
another, and could scarcely believe that I 
was still Effie Maxwell. 

I did not ask him to enter our dwelling. 
He had never yet crossed its threshold, 
and I felt as if our parting would be too 
sacred for the glare of gas-light. But 
after closing the gate I stood in its shadow 
and watched his tall form flit away farther 
and farther into the darkness. I went in 
softly, but as my mother, on hearing the 
bell ring, had opened the parlour-door, my 
glowing cheeks told her too truly the tale 
of accepted love. " Has he spoken to you? 
Have you promised him already ?" (I heard 
my father's nervous cough in the parlour), 
were questions to which I replied by an 
affirmative nod, and then rushing upstairs, 
shut myself in on my own reflections. 



224 



CHAPTER XIV. 

NEXT day Mrs. Somerville called on 
my mother. I was out at the time, 
so I am unable to tell the reader what 
passed at the meeting of these two uncon- 
genial spirits, but she left a verbal in- 
vitation for me to take tea next even- 
ing at her house. In that invitation my 
mother had been included, but she had 
respectfully declined on the ground of her 
weak health, but privately for the reason 
that she had not a dress which would look 
sufficiently elegant in Mrs. Somerville's 
mansion. I was at first somewhat annoyed 
that she had accepted it for me, for I was 
already engaged to teach at Mrs. Taylor's, 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 225 

and at first thought there would be suffi- 
cient time to send a note to Mrs. Somer- 
ville explaining matters, but my mother 
settled it by saying, 

" Effie, your music must just stand over 
for the present. Mrs. Somerville's dignity 
would be offended were you to decline an 
invitation which I have already accepted 
in your name. You must show no want 
of cordiality in becoming acquainted with 
your future mother-in-law. Just write a 
note to Miss Taylor and say you will go 
there on the afternoon of next day, as you 
find an unexpected engagement will prevent 
your doing so to-morrow. Much thanks 
you would get, to be sure, if you were to 
hurt your own interests for these people ! 
And I forgot to mention that young Mr. 
Somerville is coming at half past-five to 
accompany you there himself." 

I displayed no further hesitation in 
following my mother's advice. Alan ap- 
peared at the appointed hour. He did not 

VOL. I. Q 



228 EFHE MAXWELL. 

citadel of their affections was not to be 
taken without a lengthened siege. In 
short, I felt as if they were kind to me 
more for Alan's sake than for my own. 

I was taken home by Alan in their car- 
riage, and he informed me that his mother 
would probably invite me there every 
Saturday night. " Ada will be overjoyed 
to hear of our engagement/' said he. " I 
am only sorry that it has to be such a long 
one ; but I will exert myself to shorten it.* 

If I was not perfectly satisfied with my 
relations to Alan's parents, I was some- 
what astonished at the change in those 
with my own. Both my father and mother 
seemed to defer to my opinion in most 
things ; and, indeed, from the way in which 
my mother spoke to me, one might have 
supposed that I was already in a sphere of 
society much superior to hers. What I 
should have, and what I should do after I 
should become Mrs. Somerville, seemed a 
never-failing subject of interest for her. 



BFFIE MAXWELL. 229 

Alan sometimes came and took tea with us. 
Not often, however. He had few evenings 
to spare, being generally detained else- 
where most of the week from Monday 
morning till Friday evening. And when 
he did come, the conversation was gene- 
rally carried on by my father and him. 
They found many topics of interest in 
common, from a professional point of view, 
and also in local politics. Alan had a 
wonderful way of drawing out my father to 
relate his reminiscences of the past ; and I 
often wondered that I had myself displayed 
so little tact in getting at such a fund of 
useful information. 

But certainly the evenings I most en- 
joyed were the Fridays. Then, for half 
an hour, I was sure of having Alan all to 
myself, undisturbed by other influences. 
Then, too, he confided to me many of his 
secret hopes and aspirations. I discovered 
that he possessed ambition. Unknown to 
himself, he cherished desires that went far 



230 EJTLK MAXWELL. 

beyond the scope of the vocation he had 
chosen. He was somewhat wearied of its 
technicalities ; and more than once he con- 
fessed to a feeling of envy for those whose 
position enabled them to leave a more 
lasting mark on their generation; the 
reformers who have benefited their kind ; 
the pulpit orators whose words have burn- 
ed themselves into the lives of thousands 
of their fellow-creatures ; and the statesmen 
whose solicitude bears direct fruit in the 
increased prosperity, moral as well as 
material, of their country. " A barrister 
may become interested in a case/' he said 
one evening — "he may labour for the 
triumph of truth and justice — he may see 
his efforts crowned with success, and next 
day, what remains to him ? The details of 
a case wholly different from the last one. 
However great his eloquence may be, he 
leaves no record of it beyond a fleeting 
memory of the effect it once produced. 
The events which provoked that eloquence 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 231 

soon lose their interest for the public. 
How different is the career of a pulpit 
orator and of a politician ! They have to 
do with eternal principles— principles ap- 
plied to subjects that are of absorbing 
interest for the present time, and that will 
not lose their power through the ages to 
come. My exertions may benefit a few 
individuals — a few families; those of a 
Spurgeon and a Bright leave their mark 
on their country — on their race. Millions 
yet unborn shall arise to do them honour. 
But," added he, with a smile, and a glance 
at my anxious face, "perhaps, after all, 
they may not be so happy as I am. I once 
feared that my cousin, George Proudfoot, 
might be my rival with you, Effie. But he 
was married several months ago to a 
wealthy young lady from Liverpool. The 
fellow was actually engaged when you met 
him at Cheltenham." 

The Summer passed away. It was to 
me the brightest time I have ever known, 



232 EFPIB MAXWELL. 

only shadowed by the news of Ada's illness 
in Switzerland. Mrs. Somerville was tele- 
graphed for in great haste, and returned 
with her daughters towards the close of 
September. Ada had recovered, but look- 
ed very wan and exhausted. The hectic 
flush had deepened on her cheeks, and she 
had got a cough which sounded distressing 
in our ears. 

" The doctor at Mentone told me," she 
said to me, " that I have only a few years 
to live. Since that day I have kept eter- 
nity constantly before my eyes, and I never 
before felt so happy. I often say to Jessie 
it is worth while suffering so much to ex- 
perience the amount of kindness I have 
done, from strangers as well as from 
friends. You have no idea of it, Effie. 
Wherever I go people seem to vie with 
each other in showing me attention. One 
lady, whom I met in the railway, sent her 
own carriage for me every day we were in 
London. I didn't like to keep it long, so 



BPFIE MAXWELL. 233 

she insisted that I should always go with 
herself for an hour in the park. Then, if 
she was detained at home, she sent it all 
the same. Oh ! Bffie, you don't know how 
many good people there are in this world ! 
And I shall not regret going so much now, 
when I know that you can be more to Alan 
than ever I have been. I am sure my 
mother will love you very dearly too. You 
must try to comfort her when I'm away. 
Now, Effie, there is no use crying. I would 
not change places with you or Jessie, and 
I've told Jessie all I want to have done. I 
never can speak to Alan this way, for I see 
it vexes him so much. But he'll have to 
know it some day." 

It was thought best to accede to Ada's 
desire of spending that Winter at home. 
Our singing meetings were continued with 
more enthusiasm than ever, and I was 
greatly astonished, on one of the short days 
towards the close of November, to find the 
company assembled in the session-room 



234 EFFLK MAXWELL. 

remarkably small. Bain was not actually 
falling, but dark masses of cloud had been 
gathering overhead, and were driven by a 
high wind across the face of the sky, break- 
% ing at intervals with the advance of night, 
so as to reveal the steady radiance of the 
silver moon. I had left home somewhat 
later than usual, yet when I entered the 
session-room the only persons beside the 
harmonium were Miss Taylor, Mr. Fichte, 
and Alan. 

" Here is Miss Maxwell/' said the gallant 
German. " We are very glad to see you, 
for we thought we were to have the per- 
formance all to ourselves." 

" Where are all the rest of the world ?" 
asked I f as I hung the hat and cloak of 
which I had divested myself, on their ac- 
customed hook. 

" I believe they are afraid of catching 
cold," said Alan, laughing. " Or more 
probably they have found the lecture in the 
Relief Church a stronger attraction." 



EPFIB MAXWELL. 235- 

•' What lecture ?" asked I. 

" Oh ! it's one by a converted Arab, ,r 
replied Mr. Fichte. " He is to appear in 
his native apparel, and you know dress 
has always a fascination for ladies." 

" I beg leave to differ from you," said I. 
" You will allow that each sex tries a little 
to please the other. You dress to capti- 
vate us, we dress to attract you, and you 
see in the- draperies you affect to decry 
the results of your own taste." 

" Oh, indeed ! Then European ladies 
must have quieter tastes than Turkish 
ones. But it is really very disheartening, 
this sort of work. Some people never 
will see when others are sacrificing them- 
selves for their good. Don't you think. 
Miss Taylor, that we had better all go 
home ?" 

" I quite agree," replied that lady. " But 
I propose that we should first have a song 
from Miss Maxwell. We are not going 
to let the opportunity slip; and then we 



236 SFFDB 



JXf* 



can tell our friends what a delightful treat 
they have missed." 

I sat down and sang, " The Land of the 
Leal." But I had scarcely struck the last 
chord, when its lingering vibration was 
completely drowned in the sound of a tre- 
mendous plash against the window. 

t€ There it is," said Alan, going towards 
the door. "A torrent of rain such as 
might have ushered in the Deluge." 

And the wind came howling round the 
corners of the house, as if it were deter- 
mined to sweep away every work of man 
from the face of the earth. 

" I fear, if we tried to go home now," 
he continued, " we should not only be well 
drenched, but be swept along like withered 
leaves in one direction, while we were try- 
ing to go in another. We had better wait 
for an hour to see if the storm doe^ not 
moderate." 

"And I can give you an occupation," 
said Miss Taylor. "We have persuaded 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 237 

old Mrs. Patrick to clear out the cupboard 
where she keeps her brushes and dusters r 
and to allot us a shelf for our music-books. 
Suppose we were to arrange them all there 
neatly, and surprise the absentees." 

This motion being duly seconded, we 
proceeded to open the said cupboard. Its 
contents were of a very miscellaneous de- 
scription. Parts of old Bibles, teapot 
handles, and hairless stove-brushes lay in 
picturesque confusion on the top of a heap 
of musty papers. 

" A lot of school-exercises, I declare !" 
said Miss Taylor. " But the dust is some- 
thing frightful. Pray, Mr. Somerville, get 
Mrs. Patrick to sweep this out, and wipe 
the top of these papers, before we look 
to see what they are." 

Alan obeyed her directions. " They're 
only fit for burning," he said, whilst the 
old woman brushed the superfluous cob- 
webs into her dustpan, and then, bringing 



238 EFFTE MAXWELL. 

a basin of water, prepared to scrub out the 
•cupboard. 

" Let me see," said Mr. Fichte, turning 
up his wristbands, and deftly fingering at 
the confused pile. " What heaps of crude 
literature ! I fear it must share the fate 
of fhe Alexandrian library." . 

"Don't be so hard-hearted/' said I. 
44 Here is a large book with a silver clasp 
that may be worth looking at." 

" Ob, let me see — * Joseph Fletcher, his 
book' — the very thing I have long been 
looking for. Did you ever hear of Joseph 
Fletcher, Mr. Somerville ?" 

" No, I have not. Who was he ?" 

"One of Brown's predecessors in the 
parish church — a man who collected many 
tunes, and composed a few of his own. 
The book must be more than a century 
old. To think that Mrs. Patrick should 
have hidden it below such a collection of 
rubbish !" 

" Well, it could scarcely have made its 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 239 

appearance in more appreciative company," 
said I. " The chance of finding it belongs 
to me, and if it is one of Brown's perqui- 
sites of office, I am Sure he will resign it 
to Mr. Fichte. Suppose we try some of 
the old tunes ?" 

I placed the book on the harmonium, 
and, as I did so, a page fell out of it on to 
the floor. 

" What is this ?" said I, picking it up. 
" Is it an index to the contents, for it is 
full of figures ? It looks very, very old. 
Perhaps, Mr. Somerville, you can make it 
out." 

Mr. Fichte gazed at it as it passed into 
Alan's hands. 

11 A record of marriages and deaths, I 
think," said he, " date 1650. Not of much 
interest to any of us, I am sure." 

We soon settled down to the work of 
deciphering and playing some of the old 
precentor's airs. But though several dif- 
ferences of opinion arose amongst us, and 



240 EFFJE MAXWELL. 

though some of the melodies sounded very 
quaint and striking, Alan remained ab- 
sorbed in the perusal of the mildewed 
sheet. He sat on one of the long forms 
which filled up the centre of the room, his 
face half hidden by the arm which he had 
raised to support his head. 

"Mr. Somerville/* said Mr. Fichte at 
length, " we want your opinion as to 
whether this is a B sharp or a C natural." 

Alan rose, went towards the door, and 
looked out into the darkness. 

" The shower is going off, I think," he 
said. " Rain still falls, but it seems like 
the last droppings of the clouds. 

I noticed that his brows were contracted 
as he approached the harmonium. 

"We might have time to hear another 
of Miss Maxwell's songs," he said, u before 
it is quite dry." 

" Which would you like ?" I asked. 

" Do you know ' Uka blade o' grass ?' " 

I sat down and played it. And his deep 



BFPIE MAXWELL. 241 

tones blended with mine with a more touch- 
ing emphasis than usual in the last lines of 
the verses. 

u Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, 
And bear ye a 9 life's troubles wi' a calm and thankf u r 

mind; 
Though pressed an' hemmed on every side, hae faith, ant 

ye'll win through, 
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. 

u Gin reft o' friends, or crossed in love, as whiles nae doot 

yeVe been, 
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, an 1 tears flow frae- 

yer e'en, 
Believe it's a' for the best, an 9 trow there's good in store 

for you, 
For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew." 

When we had finished, Mr. Fichte look- 
ed out and said it was almost fair. 

" How shall we manage to see the ladies 
home ?" said Alan. " I propose that we 
both go with Miss Taylor, who cannot be 
trusted by herself along a dark country 
road. One of us can then return for Miss 
Maxwell." 

"As you have been Miss Maxwell's 
cavalier for so long," answered Mr. Fichte, 

vol. i. R 



242 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

u you may be so again to-night. Miss 
Taylor will find my escort sufficient to 
frighten away any robbers who may lurk 
between this and Craigie." 

So he went off with his fair companion. 
Alan stood for a moment on the steps to 
adjust his umbrella. 

11 Why do you do that ?" said I. 

" It does not rain, I know, but there may 
be a drip from the houses." 

The moon now shone brightly betwixt 
the silver white edges of the parting 
clouds, affording us a glimpse of peaceful 
serenity beyond the dark canopy that over- 
shadowed us. The footpaths were furrow- 
ed with streaming little rills, which ran 
downwards into the gutter, or formed 
shining pools on the broad flagstones. And 
my feet got very wet as they strove hard 
to keep in line with Alan's. 

" Why do you walk so fast ?" I asked. 

" I was not conscious of doing so," he 
replied. "I was anxious to get beyond 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 243 

these houses, that we might be out of ear* 
shot/' 

There was something unusual in the way 
he said this. He was not wont to shorten 
the time when we would he alone. 

" Is there anything wrong with you ?" I 
asked, as soon as our feet touched the soft 
clay of the country road. 

" I must tell you, Effie ; but I fear you 
will scarcely comprehend it. Did you ever 
hear of a claim that your uncle, Mr. Eobert 
Maxwell, had against my mother's family V 

44 Yes ; I did once hear of something of 
the kind, so long ago that I can scarcely 
remember it." 

44 Can you believe that the old paper 
which you put into my hand to-night is 
the very document that would have estab- 
lished it ?" 

44 Alan !" exclaimed I, stepping back in 
such unaffected surprise that I was not 
aware that I had plunged ankle-deep into 
one of the slimy heaps of mud which the 

r2 



244 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

scavenger had raked off the road. " And 
what does the old paper say ? My father 
told me it was such a silly story that the 
less said about it the better/' 

"Your uncle is not such a fool as he 
looks, for here we have the notice of his 
great-grandmother's baptism, quite in the 
form he expected it to be. It is — 'Jan. 
16th, 1652 : Mary, daughter of John 
Proudfoot, and of Mary, his wife.' " 

" And will that make any difference to 
my uncle, or to " 

"To me, you would ask. Yes, it will 
make a world of difference. It will over- 
throw many of my cherished hopes, for the 
larger part of our property will pass from 
our hands to his." 

" But that cannot affect your fathers 
money." 

" No, of course it cannot. But do you 
know, Effie, that I was supposed to be heir 
to a very large fortune, which came through 
my mother ? It is arranged in her settle* 



EFFIK MAXWELL. 245 

ment that I am not to be master of it till 
my father's death ; but he had promised, 
when I became thirty, should I by 
that time have gained distinction at the 
Bar, and conducted myself well in other 
ways, to give me the greater part of it, 
and allow me to stand for the county, 
where the Proudfoots' influence would 
almost make success certain. My poor 
uncle ! it will change his position sadly." 

" Then you mean to act on it," said I. 

" Effie," he answered, stopping sudden- 
ly, u do you for one instant dream that I 
could do otherwise ? But I will put it to 
yourself. My father has got the old- 
fashioned notion that a young man had 
better not marry till he can support a 
wife, and that he becomes a good-for-no- 
thing fellow when relieved of the necessity 
of trusting to his own exertions. Now I 
have made very little money as yet — it 
may be long before I can earn a compe- 
tency, — and our marriage will be indefi- 



246 EFFTE MAXWELL. 

nitely postponed unless I destroy this 
paper. I can do it very easily." 

"Alan," I exclaimed, "I should hate 
and abhor myself could I induce you to do 
any such thing ?* 

" I knew it. Well, but that is not the 
worst of it. My step-mother's dowry will 
be swallowed up also. Ada and Jessie 
will be the losers. How am I to break 
the news to them ?" 

"And it all comes of my curiosity in 
searching through an old music-book/ 
said I. " I wish very much I had stayed 
at home." 

"It would have been found sooner or 
later," answered Alan, "and possibly by 
some one who was not very friendly, and 
might have fancied he was enjoying a tri- 
umph over us. No, Effie, you know it is 
not for the money I care, nor even so 
much for my political prospects ; but how 
long am I to wait for you ?" 

A spasmodic movement of his arm 



EFFIB MAXWELL. 247 

showed me that he was trying to master 
some strong emotion. Assuming my gay- 
est tone, I answered : 

" It may not be so long, after all, Alan* 
Did you not say just now that all depended 
on yourself ? And will you not like me all 
the better if I come to you as the reward 
of your own exertions ?" 

He smiled sadly. 

" You do not see all the difficulties I see, 
Effie. But as you say I had better put a 
brave face on it, I will try to do so." 

"What have you done with the paper?" 
I asked. 

" It is in my waistcoat pocket ; and, like 
its contents, it weighs very heavily on my 
heart." 

We had now reached Ruby Cottage. 
Alan bade me good night after the door 
was opened. I ran to an upper window 
and watched him wend his way quickly 
homewards, carrying safely through storm 



248 BFFIE MAXWELL. 

and rain the tiny document that was to 
have such a sinister influence on his future 
career. 



249 



CHAPTER XV. 

A LAN, in going home, was a prey to 
-*■-*' the most sombre reflections. He 
hesitated a few moments before opening the 
gate that guarded the entrance of the long 
shrubbed avenue, and gazed at the lights 
streaming through the half-open door of 
the porter's lodge. 

" How peaceful are its inhabitants !" 
thought he. "Nothing to disturb their 
well-earned slumber but the squalls of 
their own children. For them life is one 
unvarying round of work, food, and sleep. 
Their only fear to-night is the chance of a 
drenching to-morrow. Would that I could 
change my lot for theirs P 

He lifted the latch, and held the half- 



250 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

open gate with his hand. But a gust of 
wind came whistling through the leafless 
trees, bending their tall heads till they 
almost touched the rustling laurels. The 
gate was knocked violently out of his hand, 
and swung back till it lay with broken 
hinge on the edge of the cleanly-cut turf. 
Alan lost his footing, fell, and struck his 
head against a small heap of gravel that 
had been laid ready for scattering on the 
morrow. 

"A bad omen," he said, rising. The 
noise of the storm had, however, so com- 
pletely drowned the crash of the falling 
gate that the peace of the porter's family 
remained undisturbed. Alan walked at a 
quicker pace up the avenue, and again 
paused before the door of the mansion, to 
prepare his plan of action. 

"Shall I speak to my father to-night?" 
was the question that perplexed him. " If 
I do so, will it not disturb my mother's rest, 
and be injurious to her in her delicate state 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 251 

of health ? But then if I wait till to-mor- 
row, what opportunity am I likely to have? 
Jessie will chatter to her lapdog at break- 
fast-time, and I shall have to endure the 
sensation of vinegar upon nitre. And,, 
after all, am I doing the right thing ? The 
course of three gentle, harmless lives will 
be troubled by my officious meddling, and 
an old man's last days will be embittered 
by a very deep humiliation. I have only 
to drop this paper on the ground, the 
wind will carry it away, and no one will be 
a bit the wiser." 

But a voice within him said, " No, you 
will not enjoy another moment's peace if 
you venture to do so. Let the consequence* 
take care of themselves." So Alan opened 
the door and entered. 

The lights were still burning on the 
staircase. He mounted to the morning- 
room, and found his father engaged in 
extinguishing the lamp. 

Mr. Somerville was a man about sixty 



"252 SFFIS MAXWELL. 

years of age. There was a crown of 
dignity on his snow- white head a world of 
shrewdness in his bright black eyes. He 
had had his full share of the sorrows of 
life in the death of Alan's mother, and in 
the weak health of his second wife and her 
surviving daughters. His whole hope and 
much of his thought were centred in Alan, 
the son who was to succeed to the larger 
part of his fortune, and in whose brilliant 
-career he promised himself an abundant 
recompense for the labours and anxieties 
of a long life. For Mr. Somerville looked 
on the things of this world with an appre- 
ciative eye, and, -Free Church elder as he 
was, he had learned to prepare for the 
next life by doing his duty to himself and 
his family in this one, He was proud 
-also that he would leave to his son some- 
thing far more valuable than riches — the 
priceless treasure of a spotless reputation. 
For the rest, he felt that no one could 
grudge him the good luck that had attend- 
ed all his enterprises ; for Mr. Somerville 



EFFTB MAXWELL. 253* 

could truly say that he bore a grudge ta 
no one. 

" Has my mother gone to bed ? w asked 
Alan. 

" Yes, she has, an hour ago. But how 
late you are to-night ! If I had not known 
what a strong attraction you have down in. 
that session-house, I should have had the 
bellman ringing through the town for you." 

" I know it is late. But I have heard 
something that has upset me very much. 
Do you think, father, that you could give 
me half an hour's conversation ?" 

"What! here in the dark!" said Mr. 
Somerville, yawning. And seizing the 
poker, he stirred up the smouldering 
embers till they cast a ruddy light over the 
room, and showed the fitful shadows 
flickering over walls and ceiling. 

" Nothing like a good bright fire ! But, 
Alan, how serious you look ! Have you 
quarrelled with Miss Maxwell ?" 

** No, I have not done that/' replied his. 



254 KCTTB MAXWELL. 

son. " Bat it concerns a relation of hers. 
You remember the claim that Mr. Robert 
Maxwell made against us T 

"Yes, I do. A most disagreeable, 
meddlesome man. The very thought of 
him makes me sorry that your future wife 
should be his niece." 

"We cannot help that. But do you 
recollect that there was a paper he adver- 
tised for T 

"Why do you not say they? Effie's 
father would have liked to have got it 
too." 

" Well they, if you like it better. They 
.advertised for a leaf of the parish register, 
which they expected to corroborate their 
claim. And you thought it was an idle 
pretence; but, father, the leaf has been 
found/' 

" Found !" cried the old man, springing 
up as if he had received an electric shock. 
" You don't mean to say so ! Most extra- 
ordinary I And who, may I ask, is the 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 255 

fortunate seeker ? They have not manu- 
factured it, I hope." 

" There can be no doubt about its 
genuineness. And it contains the very 
words which will establish Mary Proud- 
foot's legitimacy. " 

Mr. Somerville again started from his 
seat. 

" Alan," he exclaimed, laying his hand 
on his son's shoulder, " what you are 
telling me is not a hoax ?" 

" Do you think I would be guilty of such 
a thing ? and towards you, too ! No, I fear 
it is downright earnest. But calm your- 
self, my dear father. It rests with our- 
selves to make restitution to Mary Proud- 
foot's heirs." 

" Well, you know the law better than I 
do. But have you seen the document ?" 

11 1 have not only seen it, but I have it 
here in my pocket. I will light the lamp, 
and then we can examine it together." 

Mr. Somerville rubbed his eyeglass with 



4 



188 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 



aloud. But as Winter came 
not help feeling the want 
society. 

The Somervilles moved 10 
different circle from ours. Th 
lies who visited with my 
many of them excellent in th. 
they were of a much commonei 
that with which I had been acq' 
Cheltenham. I did try to into, 
in their homely pursuits, but it w 
sible that they could have mud 
tension of mine. And what bun. 
most craves for is sympathy. 
first expected to find in my 1 
after various efforts I was oblip 
tantly to confess to a sense of u 
meat The knowledge which he 
quired, and had imparted to me, w 
a substantial foundation, worthy E< 
elegant superstructure j but in hip 
superstructure had stopped hal 
perhaps, had never been begun. 



ii'ied to his 
who married 

■ u as legibi- 

■> tfee law of 

Kit called on 
lUci* people. 

■ >i>f rudict mo 
>ud grounds. 

il son ■\voul<:|^ 
:iry Sinclair*. 

(bllll Pl'OUtJ 

!i which iv'e^t- 

so " said k i g^ 
ihe laud wxl^L 
.iat two littlc^^^ 
ttlements o_^^ 
ten oalnol^-^. 



11 any 



utiles] 



256 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

a somewhat shaky hand, while Alan care- 
fully applied the match and produced the 
faded document from his pocket. 

" It is only too plain," said his father, 
sighing heavily. " But how did it come 
into your possession ?" 

Alan briefly related what the reader 
already knows. His father listened in- 
tently, and then spoke with very deliberate 
emphasis. 

" There is only one course open to us. 
We must keep the matter secret, and ask 
Miss Maxwell to oblige us by doing the 
same. I suppose you have told it all to her 
already ?" 

"Yes, I have," replied Alan, turning 
deadly pale. "But, father, dear father, 
will we not by doing so be consciously en- 
joying goods that are not our own ?" 

" What do you mean by ' not our own ? " 

" Why, if this document is genuine — and 
you allow that it is so — then any personal 
property to which John Proudfoot was 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 257 

♦ 

entitled should have descended to hia 
legitimate daughter Mary, who married 
Mr. Maxwell." 

" I cannot allow that she was legiti- 
mate." 

" Undoubtedly she was so, by the law of 
Scotland." 

" Look here, Alan, we are not called on 
to suffer for the faults of other people. 
You are a very rash boy to contradict me 
in the way you do. I have good grounds 
for what I say ; and a dutiful son would 
defer to my judgment Mary Sinclair 
was not the lawful wife of John Proud- 
foot." 

cl That is just the point on which we 
differ," said Alan. 

" It may please you to think so," said his 
father. " But all the law in the land will 
not alter the case. Absurd, that two little 
words are to upset the fair settlements of 
three generations! Now listen calmly, 
while I explain my view. In any other 

vol. i. s 



258 MITE MAXWELL. 

civilized country our title would never be 
disputed. Here is a brother of my father- 
in-law's great-grandfather, who chooses to 
form some sort of relationship of which he 
is ashamed. The Church does not give — is 
not asked to give — its sanction to the union. 
They both take pains to keep it secret from 
lis family. A daughter is born, who is 
illegitimate by the law of religion, and by 
the law of all countries except Scotland. 
And they think they can remove the stigma 
from her birth by writing a lie on the 
parish register, the father never dreaming 
that it can have the effect of disinheriting 
his brother's descendants. For as a lie it 
was doubtless intended. Now by destroy- 
ing this paper, we destroy both a falsehood 
and its effects." 

"But are you sure that it is a false- 
hood r 

" Alan, what has come over you to-night, 
that you question my word ? If the man 
had intended to make her his • wife, he 



EFFIE MAXWELL, 259 

would have acknowledged it in a very 
different wav — would at least have left her 
some of his property by will. And I say 
that the law of Scotland is in this matter 
unjust, and that it is our duty as Christian 
men to avoid giving effect to it until it is 
altered." 

* 

"Pardon me, father," said Alan. "It 
is perhaps very wrong in me to question 
your opinion, but I have never been able 
to see that this particular law was unjust. 
Indeed I have often thought that it savour- 
ed of the gentle spirit of Christianity when 
it thus endeavoured to protect helpless 
infants from the disabilities under which 
they might suffer from no fault of their 
own. And in some cases it protects the 
weaker sex from being grossly deceived. 
A man who has done one of them wrong 
may more readily repair his error when he 
can do so without the shame of a public con- 
fession." 

"That is what I call worthy of Don 

s2 



260 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

Quixote," said his father. " You propose 
to throw a blemish on the honour, and 
destroy the position of your mothers 
family, and to relinquish very substantial 
advantages, and all for a mere vagary. 
You think yourself vastly wiser and more 
virtuous than we are. But I will tell you 
something that will shake your resolution. 
You are attached to Mr. Maxwell's daugh- 
ter, are you not ?" 

" Certainly/' replied Alan. 

" Well, my settlements will all depend 
on the resolution you take now. Believe 
me, Alan, when you know a little more of 
the world, you will acknowledge that I am 
right. If I thought for an instant that 
Robert Maxwell was the lawful heir of 
John Proudfoot, I would be the first to 
hasten and offer to replace all of which he 
has been deprived. But on my soul and 
conscience I cannot see that he is. And I 
think I am as capable of forming an opinion 
as you are. But what I was going to say 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 261 

is, if you venture to carry into effect your 
present views, I will never consent to your 
marriage with Miss Maxwell. Indeed, I 
shall prohibit you from seeing her again." 

"And if it be so," said Alan, rising, 
while a glance of intense pain shot 
from the corners of his lips, " I could re- 
nounce even Effie, if I thought that by 
doing so I was keeping my conscience 
clear/' 

" Then I hope you will not presume to 
be the guardian of mine, ,, said his father. 
" Think over it till to-morrow morning. 
And not a word to your mother, remember. 
She must know it, of course, if you are 
obstinate. I cannot tell how it will affect 
her." 

Alans lip faltered as he said good night. 
Then pressing his hand to his brow he 
turned and went to his room. He threw 
open his window. The wind was still 
sighing loudly through the leafless trees, 
but it could not express half the sorrow 



262 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

that lay deep in his soul. It was a painful 
revelation, and as unexpected as it was 
painful, the knowledge that his father's 
standard of honour was a lower one than 
his own. He had till then reflected with 
pride that never for one instant had he 
cost his father a pang. And he must do 
his duty, with the consciousness that four 
pair of loving eyes would watch his every 
movement with looks of reproach. JSTo, 
not four pair, only three, for Alan felt con- 
vinced that he should find a moral support 
in Ada. 

He never undressed, but towards morn- 
ing he threw himself on his bed and slept 
heavily. The sound of the breakfast-bell 
awoke him. He hurried downstairs and 
found his father sitting before the fire, 
engaged in the perusal of the morning 
paper. Jessie occupied her usual place at 
the tea-urn, her white poodle lying at her 
feet, ready to snarl at anyone who might 
approach her. Mrs. Somerville and Ada 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 263 

seldom appeared at the morning meal. 

Mr. Somerville returned his son's saluta- 
tion with a nod and a somewhat impatient 
shake of his foot. On Alan's rising from 
table, he suddenly looked up and said : 

11 1 think your mother will be glad to see 
you, if you will go up to her room." 

Alan obeyed. Having heralded his 
advent by a gentle knock, he found his step- 
mother arrayed in an ample scarlet dressing- 
gown and white Shetland shawl, her dark 
hair neatly braided beneath the snowy 
f riflings of a muslin cap. Traces of tears 
could be distinguished beneath her long 
eyelashes as she imprinted a soft kiss on 
his cheek. 

" Your father and you have quarrelled," 
she said. " Are you not wrong in oppos- 
ing him r 

" Do you understand what it is about ?" 
asked Alan. 

"Yes; your father has explained it all 
to me. My dear child, I think you look at 



•264 EFFIK MAXWELL. 

it in quite a wrong light." And Mrs. 
Somerville applied her handkerchief to her 
eyes. 

Greatly distressed, Alan laid his fore- 
head on the hand which was already resting 
on the chimney-piece, whilst his mother 
continued : 

"It is not for the loss that I or my 
daughters will suffer. But, Alan, think of 
your mother s memory. Think of the injury 
you are inflicting on her brother, and the 
reproach under which you are laying her 
parents and grandparents — that they were 
using and enjoying the goods of others. 
Oh! if you had seen her look when she 
commended you to my care ! She did not 
expect this of you." 

" I have thought of all that," said Alan, 
raising his head. " But if we are not to 
do evil that good may come, surely we are 
not to be prevented doing right because 
some evil will result from it. And I can- 
not see that our forefathers can be re- 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 265 

proached for what they did in ignorance." 
" I know the law supports your view," 
said Mrs. Somerville. " I do not like 
arguing, but there is another way to look 
at it. If we find law opposed to justice 
and Christian morality, which are we to 
prefer ?" 

" The latter, of course," replied Alan. 
" And is it not so in this case ?" 
" Not that I can see. It is quite true 
that whoever wrote the record of the 
baptism did not think of its possible 
consequences in regard to property. John 
Proudfoot was a younger son, and the 
elder branch was not then likely to die out. 
But at the same time, had Mary's daughter 
been regarded as illegitimate, why should 
he have troubled himself about its baptism 
at all ? The mother could have managed 
that." 

"Quite true," replied Mrs. Somerville. 
*" I did not think of it. But you do not 



266 BFFIE MAXWELL. 

dispute that she was reputed illegiti- 
mate?" 

" By the tradition of the family, certain- 
ly. And yet here is a curious contradic- 
tion. May I ask you, mother, what would 
your feelings be if I allowed you to destroy 
this paper ? Would you be as positive to- 
morrow that you had done right as you 
are now that I am doing wrong ?" 

"Well, I cannot tell," said Mrs. Somer- 
ville, sinking down on the sofa. "I am 
not able to argue with you, Alan, and there 
is wrong and right on both sides. It gives 
me great pain to think of you quarrelling 
with your father, and you have been such 
a good son always. But what do you think 
of doing ?" 

"I am not going to lose any time, as I 
fear my own resolution might be shaken. I 
shall first ride over to Nethercliffe, and 
acquaint my uncle Proudfoot with the 
circumstances. I hope to get George to 
accompany me to Rose's, and the next 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 267" 

thing will be to open up negotiations with? 
Mr. Maxwell." 

" Well, I will tell you one thing. Yon 
will not get George to go. Still it is rights 
perhaps, that you should ask him. And 
remember, Alan, the blow falls far more 
heavily on them than it does on us." 

" I know that, mamma." 

" What a terrible sum they will have to- 
pay ! The Nethercliffe estates cannot cover 
it. All that our fathers and grandfathers 
wrongfully enjoyed, to, have accumulated 
for Mr. Robert Maxwell ! Oh ! it is hard, 
very hard, to think of a respectable old 
family being so ruined !" 

" Oh ! no, mamma, it is not so bad as 
that," said Alan. "Mr. Maxwell's immediate 
ancestors did not claim the money, and he 
cannot in justice expect to enjoy what 
would havq been spent before his birth, if 
they had done so. Besides, Eose is very 
clever, and considering that it is we who 
produce the paper, and to avoid the ex- 



268 EFF1E MAXWELL. 

pense of a lawsuit, I am in hopes that Mr. 
Maxwell will agree to a compromise." 

" Then it is not so bad as I had fancied," 
said Mrs. Somerville, smiling through her 
tears. " I believe you are right, Alan. Go 
rand do what you think best. I am thank- 
ful you have plenty left. And I will try 
to make your father agree." 

Alan bent down and kissed her affection- 
ately. He found his sister's maid waiting 
^,t the door of the room. 

"Please, sir, Miss Somerville says she 
would like to see you, if you have a 
minute's time." 

He hastened to Ada's dressing-room. 
Jessie was seated on a footstool beside a 
blazing fire, with Topsy on her lap. Ada 
lay on a sofa under a coverlet of fur. The 
laughing looks of both showed that they 
had taken the matter less seriously to 
heart. Ada, however, became grave on 
•seeing her brother. He drew another foot- 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 26^ 

stool to her side, and laid his cheek against 
the sofa-cushion. 

It was some time before either spoke. 

" I fear you are in trouble," said Ada at 
length. " Jessie told me she thought you 
had not slept much. Papa related the whole 
story to her after breakfast." 

" Yes," said Jessie ; "and do you know 
what has been amusing us ? How George 
Proudfoot will pull his moustachios and 
open his eyes when he knows he's got to 
work like other people. I know it's wrong 
to laugh, and we ought to be ashamed of 
ourselves. But, Alan, we couldn't help 
it." 

"I wouldn't have laughed, but Jessie 
made me do so, the way she imitated 
George," said Ada. 

" Then you think I am right in showing 
the paper ?" said Alan. 

" I cannot see how you could do other- 
wise," replied Ada, gravely, turning on him 
her large spiritual eyes. " It was only 



270 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

what I expected of you. How are we to 
judge of the thoughts and feelings of 
people who lived two hundred years ago ? 
And is not the law the best umpire in 
doubtful cases ?" 

"And we don't care for the money/' 
.said Jessie, placing her hand close to the 
bars of the fire. ""We know papa has 
enough without it. It won't make any 
difference to our prospects." 

" Certainly not to mine," said Ada, with 
a sweet smile, and a peculiar flash of the 
eye. 

"Nor to me/' continued Jessie. Ill 
marry nobody who isn't contented with an 
attic and one servant. Not that we won't 
take more if we get it, but I mean we're 
not to be discontented with that." 

" But I am sorry for Uncle Proudfoot," 
said Ada. 

" HI tell you what," interrupted Jessie, 
" I'm sorry for nothing except that it's all 
to go to that vulgar, bombastic creature. 



BFJ&TE MAXWELL. 271 

Oil ! if it had been to go to anyone else ! 
I'm sorry to speak that way of your future 
relation, Alan P 

" Who is to tell Uncle Proudfoot P" asked 
Ada. 

" I am" replied her brother. " I am 
going over there just now." 

" Well, take my advice. Don't go with- 
out having a little luncheon first. For I 
know, when you are excited, you are apt 
not to take care of yourself. And where 
have you got the paper ?" 

" Here it is. Would you like to see it ?" 

Both sisters having satisfied their curi- 
osity, Ada continued : 

" My second piece of advice is to take 
care that the wind does not blow this 
away. Indeed I would ask you to leave it 
in my keeping were it not that perhaps 
my uncle would like to see it. But be on 
the watch against mishaps." 

" I am much obliged for your advice," 
said Alan. " And I feel as if my duty will 



272 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

be more surely done now that I have your 
sympathy. Do you think my father will 
never relent ?" 

"Oh yes, he will, in a very little," 
replied Ada, smiling. "Take my word 
for it. I know him better than you do." 

" Good-bye, my darling Lily," said Alan, 
pressing her thin hand to his lips. "I 
hope to see you both this evening and tell 
you that it is done." 



273 



CHAPTER XVI. 

TT was not without a severe struggle that 
-*- Alan had resolved on renouncing his 
schemes of youthful ambition. Still he 
felt within himself that he should lose 
nothing of what constitutes a man's true 
nobility, the power to dare and the perse- 
verance to achieve something that would 
make him worthy of the respect and grati- 
tude of his fellow-men. The struggle 
might be more up-hill, and the goal might 
not be reached till the shades of evening 
began to gather over his path, still the 
way was open, and the goal before him, 
and his was a spirit that rose at the sight 
of unforeseen obstacles. 

But there was something that cost a 

VOL. I. T 



274 EFFTB MAXWELL. 

real pang in the renunciation he was about 
to make; something that clouded his 
brow, and weighed on his heart as a clod 
from the gardener's spade may weigh on 
the calyx of some opening flower. Need 
I say that this hidden sorrow related to my 
unfortunate self ? The emphasis with which 
his father had pronounced the cruel words 
of separation sounded in his ears as the 
knell of the happiness he was about to 
bury; and this grief he had carefully 
hidden from his sisters, lest it might inter- 
fere with their power of reflecting calmly 
on what related principally to themselves. 
Having swallowed a hasty lunch, he 
vaulted into the saddle, and turned his 
horse's head, not in the direction of 
Nethercliffe, but in that of the Kilronan 
gas-works. A short distance beyond that 
ugly building he stopped, gazed intently 
at a certain quiet little cottage, and having 
observed that the blinds were down, for it 
was Saturday afternoon, and that a matron- 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 275 

ly figure was picking up some withered 
leaves in the garden, he gave a deep sigh, 
turned towards the town, and was soon 
on his way to the mansion of the Proud- 
foots. 

He was surprised to find little trace of 
the previous night's rain. A slight touch 
of frost had made the ground hard as 
stone; and as his favourite mare bent 
her sleek neck and raised her heels in 
answer to the touch of his whip, a glow of 
youthful vigour shot through his veins and 
effaced the ravages which anxiety and 
sleeplessness had made on his handsome 
countenance. 

The road ran for a long way through a 
beautiful forest, where old gnarled oaks 
mingled with feathery-looking birches and 
scarlet-berried rowan-trees against a sombre 
background of pines. Deeper down in the 
valley, but parallel with the road, a broad 
stream ran foaming and eddying amidst 
white granite boulders, and betwixt banks 

t2 



276 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

of fresh green pasture, upon which a 
goodly number of small, shaggy, horned 
cattle were feeding. Emerging at length 
out of the forest, he came to the spot 
where another valley discharged its waters 
into those of the one he had traversed, and 
from the bridge which spanned them be- 
low their junction he gazed on the grey 
towers of Netherclrffe, resting in the midst 
of their grassy pleasure-grounds on the 
slope of a hill. The view beyond was 
closed by the steep, grey, pine-fringed 
crag which gave them their name. 

How many recollections of his boyish 
days came crowding back with these fami- 
liar scenes ! The white stone amidst the 
trailing brambles by the roadside, from 
which he had run in mortal terror one 
night, after reading a ghost-story ; the 
deep recesses of the lower wood, where he 
used to gather snowdrops ; and the higher 
one, where he used to gather blackberries 
for his little sisters to make into posies 



BFFIB MAXWELL. 277 

and pies ; the deer-park, with its tame 
denizens, who loved to rub their cold noses 
against his warm hand, and contemplate 
hini with their great watery eyes in expec- 
tation of some sugary largesse ; the spot 
where his kind uncle once taught him to 
fire a gun ; all these seemed to say, " Will 
you not leave us in peace ? Can you vex 
the soul of those who have done you no- 
thing but good ?" t 

But a low whistle sounded suddenly 
from the other side of the hedge, and he 
had difficulty in reining in his bounding 
steed as a blaze of red and white colour 
darted before his eyes, and the tall form of 
his cousin George, in hunting-dress, ap- 
peared immediately before him on the 
road. 

11 How d'ye do, Alan ? That was a 
leap, was it not ? Hallo ! Weasie, where 
are you ?" And the rider pointed to two 
huge black dogs struggling through the 
thorn hedge. 



278 EPJIB MAXWELL. 

" Certainly it was," replied Alan. " But 
where have you come from ?" 

" Come from ! Just had a run with 
Cardoness's harriers. So stupid of you 
not to join the hunt ! Would do you as 
much good as those old books." 

They had now arrived in front of the 
principal entrance. A little Elizabethan 
lodge, with casement windows, guarded it 
on either side, and an old woman dropped 
a deep curtsey as she swung open the 
massive gold-tipped portals. 

Why did Alan's horse start back and re- 
fuse to enter ? Did she recognize the effi- 
gy of some defunct kinsman in the snort- 
ing nostrils and ridiculously poised forefoot 
of the impossible animal perched on the 
pillar above its head? Whether her in- 
stinct worked thus powerfully or not, a 
slight touch from the hand of her master 
restored her habitual courage. The two 
young men rode up the avenue together. 

" My wife will be glad to see you," said 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 279 

George. " She finds it rather dull work 
here in the country. So few visitors, you 
know." 

The thought of the beautiful young girl 
whose married life was to be clouded at its 
commencement deepened the shadows on 
Alan's face. 

" I have not come to call for Mrs. 
Proudfoot," he said. " Do you think your 
father is at home V 

"Yes, of course he is. But you can 
surely spare a minute to see Annie. She 
will never forgive me if you don't." 

" I fear it is impossible. My business 
with your father is very pressing. Do 
you think he will be in the library ?" 

" Most likely, for he has been ill with 
the gout since yesterday morning. It 
seems very strange, does it not, he being 
so moderate ? But it's funny that it never 
comes on till the twelfth of August, and 
is less severe when the grouse are scarce. 
He's precious angry if any of us dare to 



• 



280 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

say so. But I say, Alan, what a moody 
fellow youVe grown ! The law hasn't 
jilted you, has it ? If you'd come to the 
meet on Monday, and have a good ride 
across country, you'd soon get cured of the 
blues." 

" I see the storm has been doing mis- 
chief," said Alan, pointing to a row of fine 
chestnut-trees prostrate on the ground. 

" Yes, torn these fellows up by the roots. 
It's a thing no fellow can understand, why 
the wind leaves some trees untouched, and 
picks out one here and there, very often 
the strongest. It just comes with a swirl, 
and one would say it was something like 
death." 

" What handsome dogs you have !" re- 
marked Alan, with a dreary smile. 

"Yes, haven't I? — half shepherd, half 
bloodhound. That fellow there, we call 
him Satan, because he's got such yellow, 
sulphurous eyes, and not a white hair on 
his body. Worry a hedgehog, that fellow 



BFFIB MAXWELL, 281 

will ; and the other with the green goggle 
eyes, we call him Weasie." 

" Not very attractive names," said Alan, 
slipping from the saddle, and giving the 
reins to one of his cousin's grooms. " Just 
walk Lily up and down a little, please, till 
I am ready for her." 

He entered through a marble-paved 
vestibule, hung round with ancient shields, 
and guarded by two stuffed warriors in 
rusty armour. In the inner hall his eyes 
were again pained by the sight of those 
gems of Watteau, Paul Veronese, and Sal- 
vator Rosa, whose softly-blending tints 
and long-drawn perspectives had trained 
his own taste for art. Was his the ruth- 
less hand that would tear them from the 
walls ? He felt rather like a conspirator 
as he walked with George through the 
long fresco-ceiled picture-gallery betwixt 
the full-length portraits of his ancestors. 
The dark eyes and ruddy beard of the 
John Proudfoot, whose shortcomings had 



282 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

so tarnished the family glory, stared down 
at him from the high position which befit- 
ted the vignette of a younger son. 

A couple of baize-lined doors at the far- 
ther end of the gallery haying been opened 
by George, Alan stepped into the sanctuary 
of his uncle. 

Mr. Proudfoot was very vain of his 
personal appearance, and though more 
than seventy years of age, he loved to 
display a well-shaped foot. A more negli- 
gent style of wrapping might have hu- 
moured his malady, but in spite of his 
son's remonstrances, he would insist on 
imprisoning the suffering member in its 
usual covering of leather. The pangs had, 
however, become so unendurable as to 
induce him to cry for quarter; and his 
servant had just succeeded in taking off 
his boot as Alan came in. The moment 
after this was accomplished was one of 
exquisite agony, and the old gentleman sat 
forward in his arm-chair, with his mouth 



EFPIB MAXWELL. 283* 

contorted, and his eyes almost starting 
from their sockets. It was some minutes 
before he could speak. 

" Glad to see you, my boy. There, take 
a seat, and be thankful you are still free 
from the ills of old age." 

" I should prefer to stand," said Alan, 
placing himself betwixt the fireplace and 
one of the book-cases. " I am sorry to 
see you suffering so much." 

44 Oh ! it was only for a moment. 'Tis 
over now." 

" I have something, very important to 
tell you, uncle ; and I should like George 
to hear it too." 

44 All right, old boy," said the younger 
Proudfoot. 44 Only don't speak quite in 
that sepulchral voice. One would think 
you had been burying your great-grand- 
father." 

" Do you recollect, uncle," said Alan, 
" an old claim which was raised against 
you by Mr. Robert Maxwell ?" 



284 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

"Yes, of course I do. Has he been at 
it again P He may whistle on his thumb, 
for anything he is likely to make out of it." 

"Do not be too sure of that. "Would it 
surprise you to hear that there were 
proofs in his hands of his claim being a 
good one ?" 

" What proofs can he have ?" 

" The record of a baptism in the parish 
register in which Mary Sinclair -is named, 
unmistakably, as the wife of John Proud- 
foot." 

" Nonsense ! — fiddlesticks ! Alan, don't 
you come here with a cock-and-bull story ! 
They've made it up, that they have !" 

" But if I tell you that I have seen the 
paper ?" 

Mr. Proudfoot opened his eyes wide and 
struck his hand on his knees. 

"Don't be a fool !" he exclaimed; "its 
very easy to manufacture that." 

"Unfortunately there can be no sus- 
picion of forgery in this instance. The 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 285 

paper fell into my hands quite naturally. 
It was a leaf from the books that used to be 
kept in the old church ; and it was found 
by myself in an old music-book in the 
session-room of the Free one." 

11 Some one placed it there for you to 
find." 

Alan shook his head. 

"My father thinks it is genuine," he 
answered. 

"Does he? Then that alters the mat- 
ter," said Mr. Proudfoot, starting up with 
a look of undisguised alarm. " Where did 
you say the paper was ?" 

u Here it is," said Alan, pulling it out of 
his pocket. 

Mr. Proudfoot and his son went to the 
window, and examined it carefully. 

"It certainly does boar the marks of 
reality," said the father in a low voice. " If 
the claim is a substantial one, we shall have 
to live on a pauper's income. Does any* 
one know of it beyond our own family ?" 



286 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

" No one knows wlio is not in our in- 
terest," replied Alan, lifting the paper 
which his uncle had deposited on the table, 
and replacing it in his waistcoat pocket. 

" Well, it will be a troublesome business, 
and I hope we may get clear of it. But do 
you not think that to avoid a law-suit, 
which may be ruinous to both parties " 

" We had better propose a compromise," 
interrupted Alan, catching his breath. 

" Compromise ! No, not while I live !" 
exclaimed Mr. Proudfoot, stamping on the 
hearth with his gouty foot, and then tot- 
tering backwards with a violent twinge of 
pain. " I will fight as long as I have a 
single acre left. My motto is, l Never say 
die !' " 

II Pardon me, uncle," said Alan. 

" Pardon none of you ! Why, are you 
such a craven that you give yourself up 
for lost without a fair stand-up fight?" 

II I do not give myself up for lost. 
Uncle, I know well that it is a far more 



BFFIB MAXWELL, 287 

serious business for you than for us. But 
were I in your place I would hear both 
sides before I made up my mind as to my 
line of conduct." 

" Then let us hear the other side," said 
Mr. Proudfoot, sinking into the depths of 
his chair and preparing himself to listen. 

" Simply this. You may go to law, you 
may spend a great deal of money, and 
after all the decision given is sure to be 
against you." 

"With that paper in evidence, I admit 
things might look a little dark. But sup- 
pose," continued Mr. Proudfoot, lowering 
his voice to a whisper — " suppose we were 
to destroy it ?" 

"Never, if I can prevent it," replied 
Alan. 

Mr. Proudfoot and George both looked 
as if they had been stung by a serpent. 

" Alan," said the latter, clenching his 
fist, " allow me to tell you that you are a 
thoroughbred fool ! No one but a moon- 



f 





288 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

struck ninny would dream of such a thing. 
You prefer the interest of a low-born, 
vulgar, soap-dealing rascal to those of one 
of the oldest families in Scotland." 

" I was not aware that Mr. Maxwell had 
traded in soap," answered Alan. "But 
that can make no possible difference to our 
line of duty." 

"Alan, you are scarcely in your senses!" 
said Mr. Proudfoot. " I am sure you have 
no reason to wish me ill. Have you ever 
had anything but kindness in this house ?" 

" No, certainly ! I am not ungrateful," 
replied Alan. "But you forget, dearest 
uncle, that I shall also be a loser." 

" I know it. But your case is a very 
different one from mine. You are young, 
you have the world before you. Will you 
come with me to this window ?" 

He opened a casement, and stepped on 
to a little balcony. George left the room 
for a few minutes, whilst his father pointed 
out to Alan two white houses that lay 



EPFIE MAXWELL. 289 

embosomed amidst groves of tall trees, far 
up the valley in front of the house. 

"Do you see these farm-steadings?"he said. 
" I have built them and a dozen others like 
them in various parts of the estate. I have 
fitted them with every modern improvement 
that can promote the health or lighten the 
labour of their occupants. I have divided 
the land into suitable portions, and round- 
ed off each farm so as to make it a conven- 
ient shape for one man to manage. This 
has not been done without trouble and 
thought ; for when it was rumoured that I 
wanted a bit to fit into my property, the 
price of that bit rose to an absurd figure. 
Separate the entailed from the unentailed 
and you destroy the symmetry of the 
arrangement, and leave a lot of fields strag- 
gling about like the county Cromarty. And 
I have not exacted as high rents as I might 
after all my fencing and draining. Now if 
I am called on to pay so much money, I 
become crippled as a landlord. Others 

vol. i. u 



290 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

•will feel the pinch besides me, and the 
happiness of many families be scattered to 
the winds." 

Alan gazed sorrowfully on the fair pro- 
spect before him. 

"I know it, and I feel it deeply, " he 
answered, "but I cannot find it in my 
conscience to advise you otherwise than I 
have done." 

" Does your father approve of it ?" asked 
Mr. Proudfoot. 

" I am bound to say that he does not 
at present agree with me." 

" Then will you not try to be reason- 
able ? And I will tell you something else, 
with George's permission. But where in 
all the world is the fellow ?" 

" Here I am, father. I only went to ask 
if my dogs had their dinner. I know 
what you were going to speak about, and 
I should like Alan to know it." 

" Well, it is this. You see we — that is, 
George and I — have been talking to Rose 



EPFIB MAXWELL. 291 

about what we should do in case Annie has 
no children. Rose advised that we should 
break the entail, which we are, of course, 
competent to do together, and let the 
property descend to the next heir by the 
f6male side. Do you not understand ?" 

" I don't see how that can influence your 
decision in this matter." 

" It can't influence ours. But it should 
certainly change yours. For if you don't 
agree to meet our views, we will let the 
entail remain as it is ; won't we, George ?" 

" Of course we shall," responded the 
young man with a sudden flash of happy 
intelligence in his dark eyes. 

"And why should it change mine?" 
asked Alan. 

" Is the boy a blockhead ? Why, don't 
you know that you are the first heir in the 
female line ? And if you don't regard our 
interests, we certainly are not bound to 
further yours." 

u2 



292 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

* 

"My first interest is to have a clear 
conscience." 

" Somerville," said George, his face flush- 
ing with the anger he had until now re- 
pressed, "do not provoke me to tell you 
what I think of your conduct. A few 
women and fools may applaud you as a 
self-sacrificing hero, but you will be con- 
demned by all the honourable men in your 
own station. How they will laugh at 
the club when I tell them of this fine piece 
of stage-acting! And I shall not cease 
to denounce you in every place where my 
voice can be heard. I call it the basest in- 
gratitude ! " 

" I do not mind what you say to me to- 
day," replied Alan. "But as we have got 
so heated, perhaps I had better ride over 
to-morrow evening, and after we have all 
had time to consider, we may perhaps come 
to some agreement." 

"Very true, my boy," said Mr. Proud- 
foot, " a most sensible proposal. And now, 



EFJTE MAXWELL. 293 

as it is getting late in the day, and 
threatening to be a foggy evening, perhaps 
George will see you a bit of the way 
home." 

Alan shook hands with his uncle, and 
then walked thoughtfully with George along 
the picture-gallery. 

a Do not let us quarrel, cousin," he said. 
" I am not afraid of your threats, but I 
shall be sorry if you think I am doing this 
for the pleasure of hurting you." 

" I do not know what you do it for, I 
am sure," replied George, wiping the per- 
spiration from his brow. " May you not 
be mistaken about the requirements of 
Scottish law ? I was reading a book by 
one of your most eminent authorities the 
other day, and it seems to me it would not 
bear out your view of the matter." 

" Were you indeed ? I should like to see 
the book," said Alan. 

" Come this way, then, and I will show 
you it." And George led him up a wind- 



294 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

ing staircase to a small room in one of the 
ornamental towers, which had been fitted 
up as a library. It was lighted by a lamp 
hung above the fireplace ; the window 
being already completely hidden by heavy 
rep curtains. 

George handed Alan an old book ; then 
closed the door, and stood with his back 
against it. 

" You have made a mistake," said Alan, 
looking up. " This is a book on medicine." 

"I have made no mistake," replied 
George, cracking his hunting-whip. " Look 
here, Alan Somerville, and consider what I 
have to say to you. You do not leave this 
room until that confounded paper goes on 
the top of that fire !" 

The two men gazed intently at each 
other; the one seated at the table, the 
other standing with clenched teeth and 
fist at the door. Alan was possessed of 
great muscular strength, but he had never 
learned fencing, and I doubt if he would 



EFFIB MAXWELL, 295 

i 

have beaten, in a stand-up fight, a young 
man so addicted to field-sports as was his 
cousin. So he tried the easier method 
of argument. 

" George," he said, " you know it would 
be utterly useless to destroy this paper. 
My sisters have both seen it ; and my father 
could not do otherwise than swear to its 
genuineness, if placed in the witness-box." 
• But whilst he spoke George gave a low 
hiss, and Alan became suddenly aware 
that the green goggle eyes of Weasie were 
glaring between his feet. In an instant 
the claws of the powerful animal were 
planted on his breast, and a row of terrible 
slimy teeth gleamed from a pair of mon- 
strous jaws, whilst the owner of the sul- 
phurous eyes began tearing violently at the 
right skirt of his coat. 

It was the work of a moment for Alan 
to plunge his hand into the pocket on the 
left side. Drawing out a revolver, he pre- 
sented it at George. 



296 EFFIB MAXWELL. 

" Call off your beasts directly," he cried, 
44 or you are a dead man !" 

Scared by the sight of the weapon, or in 
obedience to the whistle of their master, 
both animals gave a growl, dropped down, 
and skulked behind the curtain. Some- 
thing in Ada's look when she spoke of the 
possibility of the wind blowing the paper 
away had induced Alan to place this effi- 
cient guardian in its vicinity. 

George had turned deadly pale, and now 
stood holding the door handle. 

" I did not mean to do you any harm," 
said he ; " only "Weasie might have got the 
paper." 

" And bitten me into the bargain," said 
Alan, angrily* " Open that door this in- 
stant, sir, and let me begone." 

George obeyed, made a very low bow, 
and preceded Alan to the foot of the 
stair. 

" I hope you will think no more of it," 
he said, holding out his hand. 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 297 

"No, I shall not; but neither shall I 
wait for your father to change his mind. 
The paper goes into Rose's keeping this 
very night" 

So saying, he left the house. But where 
was his horse? The groom had let her 
go, by George's orders, and she was now 
nibbling Mr. Proudfoot's finest Christmas 
roses. 

" Here, Lily !" cried Alan ; and the 
beautiful animal came slowly to him, paw- 
ing the ground, and bending her graceful 
neck while he vaulted into the saddle. 

Long streaks of white mist clung about 
the hazel bushes by the river-side as he 
started on his homeward journey. And 
while he was still distant a mile from Kil- 
ronan it had crept up, and, aided by the 
gathering darkness, completely veiled his 
pathway. He descended, and leading Lily 
by the bridle, entered the town by way of 
the old churchyard. 

In a street contiguous was situated Mr. 



298 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

Rose's office. Alan turned up this street 

« 

mechanically, and was startled to find both 
door and shutter closed. " Ah ! I forgot 
it was Saturday !" he murmured ; and 
touching Lily with the whip, he made the 
best of his way homewards. 

He met one of the gardeners engaged in 
trimming the turf that bordered on the 
gravelled avenue. 

" Take my horse to the stable," he said, 
dismounting, and proceeding on foot to the 
front door. But frosted ground carries 
sound quickly, and the noise of Lily's hoofs 
had already announced his return to at 
least one of the inmates. The lamp was 
not yet lit in the outer hall, and an 
indistinct form hovered about in the half 
darkness. Alan put out his hand to touch 
it, and soon became aware of a pair of 
lustrous eyes beaming at him, whilst the 
long silk fringes of a shawl passed between 
his fingers. 

44 My other Lily, it is you," he whispered* 



EFF1E maxwell. 299 s 

" But you are one of the exotic plants, that 
should be kept from draughts. How im- 
prudent of you to venture here !" 

"How cold your hands are!" answered 
Ada, with a low cough. " I could not rest 
until I knew the result of your visit." 

" I have quarrelled with Uncle Proud- 
foot," answered Alan, as he followed her 
upstairs. " And Rose's office is shut, sc> 
I must let it stand till Monday." 

" I knew it would be so," answered Ada. 
" But make haste and get ready for 
dinner." 

In a few minutes the once happy family 
sat down to a most unpleasant meal. The 
ladies knew that their father and brother 
were not on speaking terms, so they did 
not venture to address a remark to either. 
Mr. Somerville hummed, hawed, and swal~ 
lowed his food in silence ; Alan looked aa 
if every morsel were going to choke him. 
The servants hardly dared speak to each 
other above their breath, so much were 



300 KFFI2 MAXWELL. 

they awed and surprised by the unwonted 
stillness. 

Alan joined his mother and sisters as 
they retired to the morning-room. Seated 
round the large table, they partook of tea 
together, Jessie carrying a cap downstairs 
to her father. All three were anxious to 
hear the particulars of Alan's visit, and he 
related it to them, with the exception of 
his encounter with the dogs. 

" Papa seems dreadfully annoyed at it," 
said Jessie. " It would be a relief to him 
if he could speak out his mind. He has 
said a little to mamma and me about it to- 
day, but never a word to Ada. Indeed, 
once, when she came into the drawing- 
room, I think he made haste to get out of 
it." 

"He knows that I take Alan's side," 
said her sister, " and perhaps he thinks I 
might get excited, and hurt myself, were I 
to speak about it." 

41an enjoyed a heavy sleep that night, 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 301 

as the result of his vigorous exercise. 
Next day was Sunday. Mrs. Somerville- 
and Ada did not go to church, and, for 
the first time in his life, Alan also absented 
himself. He feared lest his resolution 
might be shaken by the sight of a certain 
little pair of brown eyes. So, at ten 
o'clock, he started for a walk up one of the- 
most secluded glens, accompanied by Fido. 
Fido was a dog that had received a very 
indifferent education. Half St. Bernard, 
and half collie, he was endowed with a fair 
share of the attributes of both breeds. 
He had the large forehead, pointed nose, 
and the light brown colour of his more re- 
nowned ancestors, with a chest and paws 
shaped like those of a mastiff ; whilst his 
bright black eyes and brush-like tail re- 
minded you strongly of a fox. A retriever 
by hereditary instinct, the game he found 
he appropriated to himself, regardless of 
his master's rights, and only gambolled 
the more if threatened with a whip. Only 



302 BFFIE MAXWELL. 

one regular habit had he acquired — the 
singular one of accompanying the family 
to church ; or, in the event of their stay* 
ing at home, from indisposition or other- 
wise, rebuking their apparent negligence 
by going there alone, and sitting in the 
pew by himself. On Sundays he affected 
a limp invisible for the rest of the week, 
and was well known for this habit to all 
the inhabitants of Kilronan. 

The morning was dry and frosty, the 
hills were only partially covered by a thick 
white mist, and the leafless bushes on each 
side of the glen stretched their skeleton 
boughs over the murmuring water. Alan 
walked rapidly until he found himself 
alone, and then gave way to a conflict of 
feeling. Physical and mental exhaustion, 
as well as the necessity for still further 
exerting himself, had numbed his sense of 
the danger he had escaped. But the quiet 
gloom of Nature around him called him to 
reflection. Had he really meant to aim at 



EFFIE MAXWELL. 303 

George? And, if he had done so, what 
would have been the result? Would he 
have imbrued his hands in his cousin's 
blood, and branded himself as a murderer ? 
He shuddered to think that the world 
would scarcely have accepted his version of 
the story. 

But Pido had been scampering swiftly 
up the glen, and was now returning with 
the speed of an express train. Alan's re- 
flections were interrupted by a thump on 
each shoulder, which nearly knocked him 
over. The church bells had begun to ring, 
whilst bush and rock, as well as the path- 
way, were being rapidly covered by a white 
peppering of snow. 

The young man's mind, however, was 
too much preoccupied to give much heed 
either to the coldness of the wind, or to 
the rough warmth of Fido's affection. 
Having failed to solve the question as to 
what his own intentions had been, he 
breathed a silent prayer for strength to 



304 EFFIE MAXWELL. 

resist temptation, and returned thanks to 
the kind Providence which had permitted 
him to pass through the ordeal unscathed. 

Fido, in the meantime, gave a vigorous 
pull at the skirt of his master's coat. Alan 
turned, and noticing the wistful black eyes 
of the creature, patted him kindly on the 
head. 

u Go away, good dog," he said. " I can- 
not listen to anything to-day. Wardlaw's 
sermon would do you more good than me." 

Fido walked a few yards back, then 
turned, and observing that his master did 
not follow him, gave a few expressive 
barks, and trotted off to join Mr. Somer- 
ville and Jessie in the family pew. He 
doubtless laboured under the common de- 
lusion that his presence there atoned for 
the delinquencies of the past week. 

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 



LOUDON : PKINTRD BT MACDONALD AMD TUG WILL, BLBXBJDM HOUSM